Picking up the Pieces
by Gertrude2034
Summary: Takes place five minutes before the end of "Help Me" – but in this story Cuddy doesn't come to help House. Instead, a concerned neighbor sees the open door and goes to investigate.  House/OC
1. Chapter 1

This story takes up just after House has returned to his apartment after Hanna's death in "Help Me". It's my version of what might have happened if someone other than Cuddy had come to his aid – and how season 7 might have unfolded if that had been the case. I have assumed that Alvie had been living in House's apartment for a number of weeks before House realized. And that Alvie, being Alvie, didn't mind letting a new neighbor think that 221B was _his_ apartment. It will be a little dark, and there will most likely be some smut at some point.

* * *

**Picking up the pieces**

© Gertrude2034

"Hello? Alvie? Is anyone there?"

Concerned, Sarah stuck her head through the mysteriously open apartment door that had caught her eye as she'd entered the building.

"Alvie?" she called again.

The apartment looked different – Alvie had finished painting, but the canary yellow he'd been playing with had disappeared – thankfully, Sarah couldn't help thinking. There'd been nothing wrong with the existing color scheme she'd thought, a little dull, very masculine, but stylish nonetheless. She'd never understood why he was changing it; his explanation had been typically circuitous and she'd lost him somewhere along the way.

Dusty footprints led inside and trailed around the corner behind the door.

It really wasn't any of her business. But how would she feel once she went upstairs to her own apartment if she didn't make sure everything was okay? She knew she'd only worry.

She knocked on the door, causing it to swing further open. Still no answer. She stepped inside; dumped the grocery bag she was carrying on an occasional table under an oval mirror near the door.

"Alvie?" she called out again. What if he'd been up on that ladder painting again and fallen? Then again, what if she was about to spring a burglar mid-way through robbing the place?

Pushing those thoughts aside, Sarah stepped into the apartment fully and looked around. Turning to her right, the corridor led up to the bedroom, bookshelves lining the walls, and at the end, the bathroom, the only room with a light on, and on the floor—

"Oh my God."

Sarah's purse fell from her shoulder as she raced to the bathroom, her every sense on alert. Cold tendrils of dread threaded through her.

_It was happening again . . ._

His stare was blank, he didn't even notice her as she crouched down beside him.

"Are you okay?" He was covered in dust, it was caked into the lines of his face, and it gave away the tears that tracked down his cheeks. Blood oozed from a graze on his cheek and a cut on his nose. "Stupid question," she answered herself. "Of course you're not okay."

He was holding an orange pill bottle in his hand, staring at it as if it held the answer to life itself. Sarah knew that look, knew what it meant, only in her experience it had usually been directed at a bottle of vodka. Still, the poison didn't really matter, it was the look that gave him away.

Years of experience stopped Sarah from grabbing the pills away from him. She had a scar over her left eyebrow from the time life had taught her that particular lesson. Instead she sat down on the tiled floor beside him, her back against the bath. She mirrored his posture, right knee raised, left leg straight out on the floor. She belatedly noticed another bottle lying on the floor near her foot. She nudged it to turn the label up. _Vicodin_.

His was breathing hard, as if he'd been running. It caught every now and then, in a way that might have been a sob, but he was trying hard not to let it be. Every minute or so he'd grip the pill bottle tighter, fighting with it, his eyes closing as he struggled. Sarah knew this battle was his alone – no one else could fight it for him.

So they sat.

His shoulders slumped in defeat and his breath sobbed. He flicked off the lid and poured two pills into his other hand.

And still, they sat.

His hands shook terribly. Sarah noticed a smear blood on one of them but she couldn't check him out to see where else he was bleeding – not yet.

It wasn't done yet.

He smelled of sweat and fear and blood and dust.

His voice, when it came, was broken, cracked. "Take them."

Sarah wasn't quite sure what he meant at first. Then his hand shakily extended towards her.

"For God's sake," he gasped. "Take them. Take them away."

Cautiously, Sarah plucked the pills from his hand. When he made no move to stop her, displayed no sudden change of heart, she reached for the bottle in his other hand and the one on the floor as well. Twisting to her side, she emptied both bottles into the toilet, throwing in the two loose pills after them. It was a stretch, but she reached over and flushed.

He winced as the sound filled the bathroom, but otherwise didn't move.

With the immediate threat gone, Sarah's heart stopped pounding as if it were trying to leave her chest. But now her mind filled with questions. Who was he? What had happened to him? Where was Alvie?

She had a sudden thought for her own safety. She'd barged in here wondering if Alvie might have fallen off a ladder and instead found a dusty drug-addict in the bathroom. Should she call the police?

It didn't seem like this guy was here to rob the place. If he had been, he was in no condition to do it now. Instead of a finding treasure behind the mirror he'd obviously smashed, he'd unleashed his own personal demons.

She was safe, she decided. For now at least. There was a clear path behind her straight back to the front door and besides, the addict didn't look like he had the strength to wrestle a kitten, let alone attack her.

His brain seemed to catch up with her presence at the same time. "Who—?" He twisted his head to look at her and broke off with a gasp of pain, his hand rising to clutch his left shoulder.

Sarah scrambled on to her knees. "Here, let me look."

His hand fell away and she peeled back the edge of his leather jacket. A serious gash had been dressed by someone a few hours ago, but the bandage was soaked with blood and dirty. "What have you been doing? Spelunking?" she muttered, not really expecting an answer. "Here, let's get this off."

She helped him pull the jacket off his right arm so she could pull it out from behind him and gently take it off his left without twisting his shoulder. There was even more dust and dirt on the black t-shirt revealed underneath.

Grabbing a washcloth and wetting it in hot water, she peeled back the old dressing and threw it into the bath on top of the broken glass. "You're filthy," she said, wondering why she was talking – he clearly wasn't going to answer. His eyes – red-rimmed, but a clear blue despite his obvious torment – remained fixed ahead. His only movement was to wince when the washcloth touched the wound.

"You really should go and get this checked out at a hospital," she said as she gingerly wiped it clean. It didn't need stitches, but a proper exam under good lights to get rid of any contaminants was a good idea. "I'll clean it as best I can, but then you should get it checked out."

No answer.

"Pity you made a mess of the bath with that mirror. You could use one. Did you know you're covered in dirt? And that's not all. I know some chicks get off on the whole real man, musky male thing, but not me. Nothing better than the smell of soap, I've always thought."

_Using your vaguely flirty, chirpy nursing tone might not be a good idea when you don't have security a short scream away, _Sarah chastised herself. Old habits . . .

She rinsed the cloth several times between wipes, until she was sure the wound was clean enough. Then, using the end of a towel she'd soaked under the tap, she gently wiped his bloody cheek and nose, ending up cleaning his whole face, revealing a strong jaw and cheekbones that underlined crystal blue eyes that showed his every thought.

She turned away from his surprisingly handsome features and forced herself to concentrate on the wound on his shoulder. "I'm going to put a little antiseptic on it, okay? This is going to sting. Ready? One, two—"

"_Jesus!_" His lips barely moved as he grimaced through the pain.

"Sorry, old trick." She grinned at him "Never wait 'til three – I always think it hurts more."

Sarah quickly placed a dressing over his shoulder and taped it into place. "You really need to get this looked at. But at the very least take the dressing off tomorrow morning and let it get some air, okay?"

She sat back on her heels. Now what? She'd pretty much done all she could. If only she had Alvie's cell phone number – she could call him and let him know that his friend was in a bad way. Maybe . . .

"Do you want me to call Alvie for you?" she asked. "Do you have a cell phone? Do you have his number?"

He stared straight ahead. Sarah could tell that he was seeing something in his mind other than the bathroom around them. Nothing to do with the drugs, more to do with haunting memories. She knew what that was like.

Her eyes flicked to the bag of groceries sitting near the front door of the apartment. Her ice cream would be sludge by now. Hopefully it had kept everything else in the bag cold, though. She checked her watch. She didn't have time to go back to the store before Charlie arrived. _If Charlie arrived._

"Hey." She took the guy's hand and gave it a squeeze. Nice hands, she couldn't help noticing. "Are you going to be okay? I have to go, but I don't want to leave you alone like this. Is there anyone I can call?"

He blinked and Sarah didn't miss the pain that shadowed his eyes in the instant before he hid it from her. _So, no one to call._ She knew that feeling all too well, too.

"Look, will you be okay? I don't want to go up to my apartment and spend the rest of the night worrying about you." She would anyway.

No answer.

Sarah shrugged. She really had done everything she could. Short of sitting on this bathroom floor with him all night or searching the apartment for more drugs or methods of suicide, there wasn't a lot more she could do to help.

The ghost of an echo flittered through her brain. _You should have done more! Why didn't you try?_ A shudder went through her as Charlie's anguished screams came back to haunt her. Usually they were confined to nightmares in the early hours of the night. Sarah mentally shoved them back in the box where they belonged. This was different. He was a stranger. She'd done more than the average bystander would ever do. _She always did_.

Sarah stood and stretched, her back beginning to ache in with the tell-tale pain that foreshadowed a spasm. All the crouching and bending she'd been doing was going to cost her. She needed to try to fit in some stretches or Feldenkrais before she began cooking, or she'd pay for it all night.

"Well, take care of yourself. I hope Alvie comes home soon. If . . ." She hesitated but then mentally shrugged. What did it matter? "If you need anything tonight, you can come and find me. My name's Sarah, and I live in the apartment upstairs – exactly above this one. Okay?"

She didn't expect an answer and didn't get one. She'd made it almost to the bookcase before he spoke. His voice was rusty, croaked, and she almost didn't hear it.

"Wait . . ."

Sarah stopped short and spun around.

He was looking up at her, pleading and yet still proud. She cursed her soft heart as she felt it crack with his pain. She could practically feel his agony herself.

"I need . . . I need help to get up."

She could see how much the admission cost him.

"Are you hurt?" Concern creased her face as she walked back to him. "More than just your shoulder?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "My leg," he said gesturing to his raised right knee. "It's not new. Just . . . hurting like hell today."

Ah. That explained the Vicodin. And the addiction.

He reached up a hand.

Sarah took in a deep breath. Mentally preparing herself, she pulled in her core muscles, centering herself and ensuring her effort would come from her belly, not her back. "Right. Ready? Actually _on_ three this time, okay? One, two, _three_. . ."

His groan was louder than hers as he pulled himself to his feet. He balanced on his left leg and let go of her hand straight away, putting it out to lean heavily on the wall. He began to walk to the bedroom, limping heavily, leaning against the wall for balance.

"Here, let me help you."

Without word he let her slip under his shoulder, helping him the few short steps to the bed and sank down heavily with a long sigh. The bed creaked beneath him.

"There's some ibuprofen in the drawer," he said, pointing a shaky finger at the cabinet in the corner. "Top right."

Sarah opened the drawer and found a mini-pharmacy inside. She didn't want to snoop too obviously, but even just reaching in to pull out the analgesics she saw a history that sent chills of memory down her spine – anti-depression meds, anti-anxiety meds, sleeping tablets, pain killers, even some herbal remedies. All kinds of brands and types, from drug-store packaging to hospital-pharmacy orange bottles.

_Were these all Alvie's? _

She frowned. It didn't make sense . . .

It was none of her business, Sarah reminded herself sharply. And it wasn't like she didn't have enough problems of her own to be getting on with.

"Here you go."

She handed him the package of pills.

"Water."

It wasn't a request, but a demand. What, was she his personal slave now? Sarah shook her head as she went to fill a tumbler in the bathroom. It was her own fault. She always jumped right into these things and then wondered how she'd got there. Made herself useful and then wondered why she was being used. This wasn't the first time . . . and it wouldn't be the last.

He'd already popped the pills out of their pack by the time she returned and he gulped them down with the water in a couple of big swallows. They'd barely touch the sides, she knew that. She'd seen that kind of pain before. In the mirror, at times.

He dropped the tumbler to the floor where it bounced and rolled under the bed. Then he lifted his right leg on to the bed, lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes.

That was it.

He clearly didn't care that there was a stranger in his apartment. She could rob him blind now and she knew he wouldn't move from that bed.

"Yeah, thanks for all your help," she muttered sarcastically under her breath.

She paused for a moment, wondering whether she should clean up the broken mirror. Then shook herself for even considering it. She wasn't the maid. She'd done enough. Heading back out to the living room, she picked up her groceries and stepped out of the apartment, closing the door behind her. Hopefully Alvie would be home before long, and then he could sort it out.

* * *

-

Three hours later Sarah scraped two plates of lamb casserole and cous cous into the trash. She swallowed back the tears. It was a lesson she should have learned by now. Charlie's punishment would never end, even if a surface truce had been reached between them. There'd be a call tomorrow, a vehement and plausible-sounding excuse, a sulk if Sarah dared question it or ask for advance notice of a change in plans next time. And then, like the sucker she was, she'd make another time, another meal, work around Charlie's schedule and wait and see.

She switched off the lights and lay down on her bed, no energy left to undress. Straining to hear through the silence of the apartment, she wondered what the guy was doing. Had he overcome his earlier resolve and recovered enough to search the apartment for more drugs? Would he take an overdose?

It would be a pity. He had a nice face, even hidden as it had been behind the layer of dust. She picked him for ten or fifteen years older than her own forty, a number she still hadn't come to terms with. There was something about him. Maybe that something was just that he'd needed her – even for those few minutes. That look in his eyes as he'd asked for her help. She'd had a very great many people ask for her help over her lifetime, often with far more humiliating tasks than help to stand. But that look had been something new – he'd been ashamed, embarrassed he had to ask, but it hadn't dimmed his pride. That had shone through his ocean-blue gaze.

She hoped that pride and determination was enough to see him through these dark hours.

As her thoughts whirled, she heard the sound of a television go on. Just loud enough to be heard in the quiet of the night.

Well, at least he wasn't unconscious . . . or worse.

She lay there, staring up at the darkened ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of TV show after TV show. The canned laughter of a sit com. The serious tone of a documentary about something or other. The screechy voices of some reality TV. Hours later – she had no idea what time – it was switched off. She'd heard no real voices, no sounds of conversation, so Alvie obviously hadn't come home.

Then there were sounds that came from directly below her, in the bedroom. A creaking noise she recalled from when he'd collapsed onto the bed.

He'd fallen into that bed as if he owned it, she recalled. A strange familiarity to have with some else's bed, even if you were really good friends. And then there was that drawer filled with medication. In a one-bedroom apartment.

"You're an idiot," she muttered to herself. Two men living in a one-bedroom apartment? Clearly, he and Alvie were lovers. She hadn't picked Alvie as gay, in fact, she'd thought he was trying – ineptly – to flirt with her sometimes, but he'd also often made mention of some vague person who he was sure was going to love the yellow paint.

That creaking bed was going to great fun when Alvie did eventually return. Nothing better than lying alone in your bed listening to your neighbors make love.

Every ten or fifteen minutes the bed creaked again as he moved around. He couldn't sleep. She wondered if he was lying down there, like her, sheets twisted underneath him, staring up at the ceiling.

Each time he shifted she found herself shifting too.

Why hadn't she heard the noise before? She'd been living in the apartment for almost three months now, and Alvie had moved in downstairs a few weeks after her. Perhaps it was simply the difference in the two men's builds – Alvie was slight, a stiff wind would blow him over. In contrast, Alvie's lover was well over six-foot and would have to be one-eighty pounds at least. When she'd helped him to the bed she'd fitted perfectly under his arm, and she'd felt the corded muscle of his torso when she'd wrapped her arm around his waist to support him.

She tried to picture him and Alvie together. They'd look ridiculous – him tall and lean, contained and serious; Alvie shorter, waifish and twitching with enthusiasm.

She tried to imagine them lying in bed together. For some reason the image just wouldn't form in her mind. They were a little too much like father and son to fit comfortably that way.

An image that _did_ come more easily to mind was _her_ lying in that solid timber bed. And not next to Alvie.

Those dusty hands on her skin. Her arms wrapped around that muscled torso. Pressing kisses to the smooth column of his neck along the line of his several-hours-past-five-o'clock shadow. Inhaling his smell – after a long and soapy shower.

Just how twisted was she? The first sexual stirrings she felt in _forever_ and they were for the most broken basket-case she'd seen in a long time. That'd be right.

She slept.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews. It's been so long since I've posted anything I was sure you would have all forgotten about me! Also lovely to see some new readers too. Thanks for your comments.

* * *

It was another two days before Sarah saw her neighbor again. Over that time her thoughts went to him frequently, wondering if she should check up on him. But then Charlie had called – a drama requiring a drop-everything-and-run-to-New-York ego stroking – and Sarah's martyr streak was otherwise occupied for a while.

She was heading down to the basement laundry on Friday evening, a small load of washing in a basket she had perched on her hip, when he walked into the building's foyer.

"Hi," she said, giving him her best smile. "How're you doing?"

"Hi," he replied, barely looking at her, continuing on his path to his own front door.

She couldn't help pushing. "How's your shoulder?"

That stopped him short. He had been about to put his key in the door, but his hand fell to his side and he turned to her, recognition dawning on his face.

Sarah wondered whether he'd be embarrassed. Or grateful – however belatedly. She didn't expect his cool gaze to sweep over her from top to toe, coming to rest back on her face with an expression of faint distaste.

Her cheeks flamed and she shifted the laundry basket uncomfortably, reliving some of the thoughts she'd been having, late at night, listening to him move around in the apartment beneath her. She hoped he couldn't read minds, because if he could, he was about to see himself in a fairly compromising position. "I was just on my way to do some laundry," she explained unnecessarily.

He ignored her; began to turn back to his door.

She straightened her shoulders a spark of anger at his ungratefulness growing inside her. She didn't expect flowers, but a "thank you" might have been nice. "Is Alvie back?"

That made him stop and frown. "Alvie's gone," he said after a while.

Her shoulders slumped and her anger vanished. "Oh, I'm sorry." And she was too. Alvie had been a little unbalanced, but he'd been fun. She wondered if their break-up might have been behind the little scene she stumbled across in the bathroom. Didn't explain the dust, might explain the injury, did explain the broken look he'd sported. A look he was covering up very well right now. Back in the bathroom she'd thought his eyes transparent, but she'd been wrong. Today they were reflections from the surface of a still lake, showing absolutely nothing that lay beneath.

"Are you staying on in his apartment?" she asked.

The guy just snorted in answer.

It reminded her that she didn't know his name. Dumping the basket on the floor, she dusted her hands off before extending one towards him. "I'm Sarah, by the way. Sarah Hardiman. I live upstairs – directly above you."

"Greg House." He took her hand and shook it briefly. She'd been right – very nice hands. Warm and soft and not the least bit sweaty.

"Alvie and I used to have a movie night on Sunday nights." The gay thing went some way to explaining Alvie's movie taste , Sarah realized. Even as the apparent target audience, she wasn't as keen on chick flicks as he'd seemed to be.

"We can keep up the tradition, if you want," she suggested, her anger at his ingratitude forgotten. The poor man was nursing a broken heart as well as battling an addiction. The idea brought her up short. Was it any wonder she was fantasizing about him? Charlie would say that someone as screwed up as that was a siren call to Sarah.

"Uh, sure," he said, but Sarah had the feeling he wasn't really listening.

"Okay, well we usually alternate locations and this week it's your turn to host. I'll bring the food and we pick a movie each."

His eyes unfocused for a moment and then went wide. In a sudden movement he grabbed his cell phone from his back pocket, turning to open his door. As he opened it, he spun around, facing back towards her. His eyes met hers. They were alight from the inside, mischievous and knowing.

Sarah had no idea what had just happened.

Then he was chattering away into the phone to someone, started talking without even saying hello, going on about crabs and then some complicated medical jargon. It was actually quite fascinating to listen to, even if she didn't have the slightest idea what he was talking about. The jargon wasn't the problem, she could follow most of that, it was the convoluted metaphor he seemed to be drawing between febrile convulsions and those hermit crabs that lived in other creatures' shells.

He paused – it was someone else's turn to speak. And then he returned to the moment, Sarah could almost feel a jolt when she became aware that he was looking at her – _really _looking, seeing her as if for the first time.

_Now_ his eyes held all the emotions she'd anticipated – embarrassment, shame, pride, even her long-awaited gratitude. They flickered through his gaze like the images on one of those old stereoscopes. Sarah could see why he kept that reflective mask of disdain carefully drawn. If he didn't, his very soul was revealed through those blue windows.

He gave her a short nod without breaking eye contact, and Sarah knew it was a wordless "thank you". Funny, but it somehow seemed more meaningful than a lot of spoken thank yous she'd received in her time. She nodded in return, and knew she needed to break the eye contact, look away, but something held her there.

He held her gaze too, just a moment too long, just a fraction long enough for the thank you to disappear and for it to be replaced by longing – a sadness and loneliness that made Sarah want to throw herself across the threshold and wrap her arms around him and never leave him alone again.

She imagined kissing him. Again. Each time she imagined it, the kiss got better. Hotter. Sweeter.

She was staring at the brass door knocker for several seconds before she realized he'd closed the door.

"Idiot!" she muttered to herself under her breath, clapping a hand to her forehead.

Shifting her laundry higher on her hip, Sarah spun around and headed for the basement. She spent the entire wash cycle lecturing herself on her poor choices in men. He was not only disabled and an addict, he'd just broken up from a relationship with a _man_. A manic-depressive man. If there was any less suitable person for her to develop a crush on, she had a hard time imagining it.

* * *

**Sunday night**

House was pouring his third whisky and it was barely seven. He tried to bring himself to care, but failed. Nolan wouldn't be happy, he knew, but then it had been several weeks since he'd last made the trip to Mayfield, so what Nolan didn't know wouldn't . . .

His shoulders slumped. Protesting against Nolan by drinking himself into a stupor was particularly juvenile. Also pointless, since Nolan _wouldn't_ know. House had said he'd had enough of therapy, and he'd been telling the truth.

He looked at the bottle sitting on his recently rescued coffee table. He wasn't close to drunk yet – just had a pleasant buzz. After having the revelation about his current patient on Friday night, he'd managed to have a whole weekend off – most of which he'd spent alone, on the sofa. It was back to work tomorrow.

House was beginning to feel like he needed his very own little hamster wheel. Not only did his life go in circles from one week to the next, but it also felt circular in larger ways.

"Hello! Greg?" A voice called through his front door. Female. Not Wilson. "Can you open the door? My hands are full, I can't knock!"

His first instinct was to ignore it, but then he figured at least it was an interruption to his pitter patter around the hamster wheel of life.

"What?" He put on his grumpiest tone as he opened the door, sure his scowl would be enough to deter even the most determined salesperson or Jehovah's Witness.

House barely had time to step back before a woman clutching a casserole pot in one hand and a grocery bag in the other swept inside and made her way straight to his kitchen. Her hair hung in a messy curtain, obscuring her face.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow! This is hot! There, that's better. Phew, I wasn't sure I was going to make it down the stairs. Should have made two trips, I guess, but I couldn't be bothered."

House frowned and didn't close the door. Who was this woman? Did she have the wrong place?

"I hope you like chicken cacciatore. It might be just a little burnt, but if we don't scrape the bottom of the dish it should be fine."

She spun around to face him and brushed her hair back, revealing a broad smile on her face.

Recognition dawned and a squirming feeling of discomfort started up in House's belly. This was the neighbor – the one who'd found him on the day of the crane collapse, the one who'd silently supported him through his battle with the Vicodin.

He didn't know how she'd known, but her quiet presence had been exactly what he'd needed. Lectures from Wilson or Cuddy would have made him swallow those pills in sheer bloody-mindedness, he knew. But someone who'd just sat beside him, not judging, just there as a witness, had somehow helped him to find his very last seam of strength – one he hadn't even known he'd possessed.

It had been a revelation.

He'd been at his lowest – as exhausted, mentally and physically and emotionally, as it was possible to be. And even at that point, even as broken as he was, he'd still won against the Vicodin. On his own.

Something inside him had triumphed that day.

And as a result, he'd lost some of his fear that he'd relapse. Not all of it – as an addict, he knew that would always be there – but he now no longer woke up every morning wondering if today would be the day that the drugs won.

"I brought ice cream too. Chocolate chip. My favorite flavor, so sorry you don't get a choice. Ice cream is always good, though, right? Especially for broken . . . Well, let's not talk about that."

She turned back to bustle around in the kitchen and House slowly closed the front door. He walked over and stood in the kitchen, leaning against the wall, watching as she opened cupboards, pulled out plates, glasses, cutlery. She was clearly intimately familiar with the apartment. It was . . . unsettling.

"Why don't you just make yourself at home?" House asked, injecting just the right tone of derision and sarcasm into his voice.

She froze in the middle of ladling casserole onto a plate. The smile fell from her face as if it had been plastered there, and the spoon plopped back into the dish with a wet thunk.

She twisted to face him, resting her bottom against the counter, and wrapped her arms around herself. Hurt and embarrassment streamed from her in waves that were almost visible in their intensity.

"Sorry," she said, her voice quiet. "Don't you remember? When we spoke on Friday I mentioned movie night . . ." She trailed off.

House was struck by an insane urge to apologize. And an even more insane urge to walk over there and kiss her frown away. He didn't _have_ urges like that. Not anymore. He got urges to have sex. He occasionally longed for someone to touch him – for skin-to-skin contact. But he didn't get compulsions to comfort others. What was it about her?

It wasn't as if she was a supermodel. Not that she wasn't good looking in an entirely appropriate girl-next-door kind of way. Straight, dark-blond hair reached her shoulders, tucked back behind her ears as she'd concentrated on serving the meal. Hazel eyes blinked up at him. Full lips were outlined with a hint of color and shiny gloss. She was around forty, he'd guess, and her figure was like Cuddy's only more . . . _more._ Taller, larger breasts, larger hips, a rounded belly. Unlike Cuddy, she looked _soft_ and somehow less controlled. Feminine. Her over-size sweater was skewed, revealing a chocolate-colored bra strap and the creamy skin of one shoulder. She wore old jeans that curved around generous hips and hinted at long, shapely legs. He couldn't see her ass, and wasn't entirely surprised by the knowledge that he wanted to.

"I was feeling a little nervous," she said, "and I talk too much when I'm nervous. And I needed to do something with my hands, so it was easy just to fall into old habits. Alvie and I—" She broke off with a little wince. "Sorry. I wasn't going to mention him."

"Why not?"

"I thought it might be a touchy subject."

House shrugged. "I'm over it."

She gave him a look that told him she didn't entirely believe him, but wasn't going to press the point. "Okay."

"So, Alvie and you . . ." House prompted her to continue.

"We used to do this every Sunday for the past few weeks. It was becoming a tradition." Her arms dropped to her sides as her embarrassment began to fade.

House thought about it. He could throw her out. Get back to his bottle and his loneliness. Or not. He straightened up. "Who am I to get in the way of tradition? Would you like a drink?"

A slow smile spread across her face and House refused to admit to the warmth he felt at having made it happen.

"Do you have any wine?"

He shrugged. "I can find wine."

"Great." There was that sunny smile again, the one that somehow shot warmth to House's chest – and lower. She went back to dishing up the food.

A few minutes later they were perched on his sofa, plates of hot food and glasses of an expensive merlot he'd found in front of them. He had to admit it was better than the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and whisky that had been going to comprise his evening meal.

Until he took a bite.

"Ugh. This is awful." House squinted as if that would somehow make the dry, stringy, salty chicken go down more easily. Finally he gave up and spat it back on the plate.

"It's not that bad," Sarah protested, shoving a forkful into her own mouth. She began to chew and then looked as if she might gag. "Oh God," she said around her mouthful.

House put his plate back on the coffee table.

She echoed his move. "Alvie mostly used to do the cooking," she admitted once she'd swallowed. She took a big gulp of wine to wash it down.

"Alvie can cook?" House asked with surprise.

"You didn't know?" Her eyebrows raised. "Yes, actually he was pretty good. A little heavy-handed on the chili, but good."

"Well, well," House muttered.

"You really didn't know that? How long have you guys known each other?"

"About a year."

"And you lived together without knowing he could cook?"

"For a couple of months. But . . . it wasn't the kind of environment where cooking skills were required." For a moment House flashed back to the tiny dorm-room he'd shared with Alvie at Mayfield.

"Oh."

She looked slightly puzzled, but House wasn't about to explain. He wasn't especially ashamed of his time at Mayfield, but that didn't mean he went around telling strangers that he'd spent time in the nuthouse.

"Sorry," she said, gesturing to the plates. "I must have screwed up the recipe somewhere."

"Pizza?" he asked, reaching for the phone.

"No anchovies," she said in answer, taking another long sip of her wine – her nearly empty glass of wine.

"Done." He smiled. There was a sexy woman in his apartment, drinking wine quickly on an empty stomach. He hoped the pizza didn't turn up for a while.

* * *

Sarah had brought _Lost in Translation_ on DVD to watch, but Greg had rolled his eyes and made it clear he wasn't about to watch it. She let him have his choice and he obviously didn't get the meaning of _movie_ night, because he'd chosen an episode of _Housewives of New Jersey_.

It had been easy to keep her little crush on him under control. Even though he was looking quite deliciously handsome in jeans and a fine blue-and-white checked button-down. Each time her thoughts wandered anywhere inappropriate, Sarah forced herself to think about Alvie, about Alvie and vials of Vicodin, and she managed to get her concentration back.

"So, I'm guessing there's no 'Mr Sarah Hardiman' upstairs." He didn't turn to look at her, just kept his eyes on the TV. It took Sarah a moment to realize what he was asking. Partly because of the wine singing through her body, making her feel sleepy and content. She frowned. "No. I live alone."

"And you used to do this with Alvie every Sunday night?"

Sarah shifted on the sofa to make herself more comfortable. Her back was beginning to twinge from slouching on the sofa for too long. "Well, most Sunday nights. Sometimes he'd forget."

Greg snorted again. It was something he seemed to do a lot. A sound of derision and condescension and amusement all rolled into one.

"I know," she admitted. "Alvie wasn't the most reliable of friends."

"And how far did these nights with Alvie go?"

"Huh?" It was a little disconcerting, the way he was talking to her without looking at her.

"Did you sleep with him?"

So surprised, at first Sarah couldn't muster an answer. "What? No. Of course not."

"Oh." He sounded almost disappointed.

"Were you worried he was cheating on you?"

"Ha ha," he said drolly. "No, just wondering if he was doing better than me. "

"I don't understand." She had definitely lost the thread of the conversation somewhere along the line.

He shrugged. "It's been a while. Have had to listen to it mostly – Sam's a screamer." His forehead creased in a frown. "_Or maybe it's Wilson?_" he muttered to himself. He shrugged. "Of course there was Nora, but then the whole 'gay' thing got in the way."

"Nora?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "It was a thing."

Sarah shook her head, trying to clear it. "I've missed something. What are we talking about?"

"I was trying to get around to finding out if you would sleep with me," he said. His tone didn't change – he was as matter-of-fact as if he'd been talking about the weather. And he was still looking at the damn television. "Doing it in a pretty circuitous and fucked up way, I'll grant you, but that's basically what we're talking about."


	3. Chapter 3

"I was trying to get around to finding out if you would sleep with me," he said.

Sarah choked on nothing. "Excuse me?" she managed to gasp between coughs.

"I'll take that as a 'no'." He sighed heavily and reached for his glass of wine on the table in front of him.

"I didn't sleep with Alvie," she said once she'd got control of her breathing. _He wanted to sleep with her? _Sarah was in shock.

"Yeah, yeah. I get it."

"Is this, like, a reaction to Alvie leaving?"

"What, my desire to have sex with you?"

She swallowed. The pizza had turned into a lump in her stomach. "Yes."

He shrugged. "Could be. Could also just be that we're both here, I'm horny and you have great breasts."

Sarah winced and gulped some of her own wine, hoping it would settle her nerves again. Her heart was hammering double-time and she wondered if he could hear it from where he was sitting. The very idea that he was thinking about sex – with her – was unsettling in the extreme. Not only because it brought to life the fantasies she'd been having all week listening to him in bed below her.

If only he wasn't being such an . . . _asshole_.

She struggled for a carefree tone. "Not the best pick up line I've ever heard."

"What would you prefer? Did you hurt yourself when you fell from heaven? Does God know you stole the stars and put them in your eyes? Or how about: do you want to have breakfast with me? Shall I call you or nudge you?"

He reeled off the appalling lines as if they were grocery lists and Sarah couldn't help but smile. He was quite amusing in his own dark, subtle way.

She nudged his foot with her own. "I think it's in the way that you say it, as much as anything."

"Oh?" At last he turned to look at her, a single raised an eyebrow adding the perfect touch of sarcasm to his self-mockery. "Is that where I've been going wrong?"

Sarah forgot how to breathe.

His eyes burned into hers, making her feel the connection all the way though her body, pooling into an aching heat low in her belly. This time her image of an angry-looking Alvie waving a vial of Vicodin in her face did nothing. Her mind jumped straight to what it might be like to get naked with this man, ambiguous sexuality and addictions be damned.

"But . . . what about Alvie?" she managed to say after a pause to bring her breathing back under control.

"What about him?"

"Is he really not coming back?"

He shrugged. "It's Alvie. Who knows? But I doubt it."

Intellectually, Sarah knew a lot of people were bisexual. It just wasn't something she'd encountered in her somewhat limited sex life so far, though. She was trying hard to be cool about it, that Greg could switch from Alvie to her – from sex with a man to sex with woman – within a week, but it was still freaking her out a little.

"You _really_ want to have sex?" she asked, because despite the conversation so far, she was still uncertain she'd correctly interpreted what he was saying.

He shrugged and looked back to the television. "Nah. Not really."

She was a wind-up toy that had suddenly had its spring snap halfway through a tumble. "Huh?"

"Look, forget it. I was being stupid."

"That's a pretty mean joke," Sarah said. Her pulse was racing, but now she wasn't sure if it was with lust, disappointment, humiliation or anger. Probably a mix of all of them.

"Sorry." He didn't sound it.

"You just don't get it."

"Get what?"

She stood up. There was only so much even a masochist like herself could take. "Movie night is supposed to be about _movies_. You can't watch TV shows instead." Her voice rose, giving it a slightly hysterical edge, but she couldn't help it.

He looked up at her, frowning.

"Good night." She thought about her casserole dish in the kitchen, but it would hardly be an effective storm-out if she stopped to clean up and collect it first. So she grabbed her purse from the floor where she'd dropped it, biting back a gasp of pain as she bent the wrong way and jarred her back. It hurt, but she managed to walk out without another word. Proud of herself, she didn't slam the door. She wanted him to know she wasn't going to put up being played with like a cat with a mouse, but she didn't want him to realize just how upset she was at being rejected the way he had.

_Only problem was . . . _

Sarah threw herself on her bed and reached into the nightstand for painkillers for her back and the sleeping pills she was going to need in order to block out the noise from downstairs tonight.

_. . . if she thought she'd been attracted to him when she'd known he was a bisexual with a broken heart and a drug addiction? _

Now that she knew he was a certifiable asshole as well, she'd practically gone and fallen in love with him.

* * *

**One week later **

On Sunday evening House clutched a DVD copy of _Rear Window_ and a bottle of red wine in his non-cane hand as he carefully climbed the stairs to apartment D, directly one flight above his own.

Wilson had guaranteed _Rear Window_ was a perfect choice for a movie-night date, enjoyable and suspenseful enough to be good to watch, while also providing plenty of opportunity for deep-and-meaningful analysis of both the story and auteur. He'd even given House a couple of points to use as conversation openers – so eager to hear that House had a date it was almost nauseating.

Of course House hadn't mentioned to Wilson that the other person involved in this "date" didn't exactly know about it. And would more than likely slam the door in his face.

He hadn't seen Sarah since she'd stormed out of his apartment a week prior. She hadn't even appeared to collect her dish that was even now turning moldy in House's sink. There was no way of getting that black stuff off the bottom, he'd tried. But he couldn't bring himself to throw it out.

He took a deep breath and knocked.

Maybe she wasn't even home.

A mix of relief and regret swirled through him at the thought. He wasn't even sure why he was here, really. Only that all week he'd been thinking about the way she'd breezed into his apartment, sat on his sofa like she belonged there, been fun to flirt with – at least until his insane self-sabotage tendencies had taken over.

He also hadn't forgotten her kindness when she'd found him in the bathroom. Her wordless support as he'd fought the Vicodin and then her assistance afterward that had come without a hint of judgment or censure. He couldn't bring himself to talk about that, not yet, but she deserved better than the way he'd treated her last Sunday.

_Besides, if there was still a chance he could hit that, it was worth a try._

He heard the noise of chains being released a moment before the door opened. He couldn't blame her for the suspicious look she sported as she looked him up and down.

"Movie night?" he said, holding up the wine and DVD. He tried for a smile, even though he thought he tended to look dopey when he did that.

Her eyes narrowed, studying him.

She wore jeans and an orange Princeton sweatshirt. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail that made her look young. Her feet were bare and her toenails were a bright aqua blue.

"I wasn't expecting you."

"Oh, go on," House wheedled. "You were. Just a little. Hoping I might remember that movie night alternates each week. This week it's at your apartment."

Something in her expression told him he was right. Although she was trying to look disapproving, she wasn't entirely unhappy to see him. It was enough encouragement to have him push through her door.

"I even brought a proper movie," he said, holding up the DVD again.

"Hitchcock?"

With that one word, he knew he'd won. _Thank you Wilson_.

"I haven't cooked anything," she said, but stepped back to let him all the way in.

"Thank God."

She looked up at him from under her eyelashes in a way he was sure was meant to be disapproving, but the hint of a smile played around her mouth.

"I just meant that I already ordered us pizzas," he explained.

"Sure you did."

"They're on the way."

She sucked in a breath and then let it out. "Well, you'd better come in then."

He was already in, but she closed the door behind him and put a hand out for the wine. "Shall I pour?"

"Sure."

House handed her the wine and then took his time to look around while she disappeared into the kitchen. The floor plan of the place was identical to his own, but someone had modernized the interior and gotten rid of the distinctive architraves and plaster molding that his apartment had. This apartment was all clean lines and white paint. A dining table sat in front of the windows, but her sofa was in about the same position as his own. Her TV – a nice large plasma like the one at Wilson's – was on the other side of the fireplace though, and the fireplace was one of those fake things with the flames locked away behind a black and glass fascia. It was no doubt far more practical than his own open fire, but it lacked authenticity, he thought. An oak bookshelf sat where he had his desk and House had just began to peruse the shelves when Sarah returned with a glass of wine.

"Here you go."

House took the wine and ran a finger along the spines of the books as he read them. "_Lippincott's Manual of Psychiatric Nursing, Pharmacology of Nursing Care, Psychiatric Mental Health Nursing – Evidence-based Practice . . ._" He turned to study her. This was unexpected. "I'm guessing this is a stupid question, but what do you do?"

She fiddled with her glass of wine, not looking at him. "I'm a psychiatric nurse. Well, I was. Right now I work in private respite care facility as an administrator."

It explained lots of things. Like how she'd known how to handle his Vicodin battle. Her first-aid skills too – she'd dressed his wound better than Cuddy had. And . . . "Explains why Alvie liked you."

She actually blushed a little at that, and House thought it was cute.

"Yeah, well Alvie liked everyone," she said.

"No, he didn't. But he _really_ liked anyone who could relate to his life."

She shrugged. "I just accepted him for who he was."

"Not everyone could."

The long gulp of wine she took told him she was nervous. "What do you do?" she asked, changing the subject.

"I'm a doctor. At Princeton Plainsboro."

Her mouth fell open. "No."

"Yes."

"Seriously?" She still seemed gob-smacked by the news.

"Ah-huh. Specialties in infectious diseases and nephrology."

"I don't believe it."

"Really. I have my own department and everything. Diagnostics. A team of annoying and slightly incompetent fellows working for me. I can show you my card if you want."

"No, I believe you. I just . . . I don't believe . . . I've been a nurse for twenty years and I've _never_ fallen for a doctor. And now I meet you and you're a doctor."

She realized just a moment too late what she'd said. Her face flooded with color.

"Clichés are clichés for a reason," House said lightly. _She'd fallen for him?_ House wasn't going to take an off-the-cuff comment like that to heart, but he couldn't help the warm glow that swelled in his chest. Maybe he had a chance here after all. If only he could reign in his asshole tendencies for a few hours. "Shall we put on the movie and get started before the pizzas arrive?"

She seemed relieved by his change of subject and they settled on her sofa and began the movie with polite chatter about the sudden chill in the Fall weather, complaints about the neighbor in apartment A who always slammed his door, and a little commentary on Hitchcock. House provided his Wilson-prepared line about the parallels between the James Stewart/Grace Kelly couple and the other couples in the apartment building. That earned him an impressed nod and praise for his insight. Maybe he'd buy Wilson lunch this week.

As the pizzas arrived and the movie continued, House began to squirm. He totally took back his gratitude to Wilson and instead was going to glue all his office drawers shut in vengeance.

The movie featured a crippled man, spying on his neighbors. Perfect choice for a crippled man trying to date one of his neighbors. _Not._

"Am I the only one who's slightly uncomfortable with the content of this movie?"

Sarah blinked. "Huh?"

"Neighbors spying on each other? I can promise you that although I'm a cripple, I don't own a pair of binoculars." That was probably a lie – House was sure there was a set in his closet somewhere, but he'd never used them to spy on neighbors. Not yet, anyway.

She gave him a quick smile then turned back to the movie. "Good to know."

"In fact, until you turned up in my apartment, I didn't even know who my neighbors were."

"Really? Well, you haven't lived here that long."

"Ten years."

"What?" Now he had her full attention.

"I've lived in this building for ten years. Actually probably more."

She frowned, as if working on a difficult math problem. "I moved in three months ago. Alvie moved in six or seven weeks ago. Didn't you move in with him?"

"I've been staying somewhere else for a few months. With a friend. Alvie took advantage of an empty nest."

"Ah. So it's _your_ apartment. Alvie let me think . . . But that makes so much more sense."

She looked about to ask him more questions about his history with the apartment and House didn't want to go there. "Have you spied on any of the neighbors?" he asked instead, putting on his best flirting tone.

Her cheeks pinked tellingly. He liked the way she blushed so easily – it made her very easy to read. "You have!" he crowed.

She paused for a moment, hesitant, and then said quietly, "You have a very squeaky bed."

"I do?"

"And you toss and turn a lot at night."

"You can hear that?"

She shrugged one shoulder in acknowledgment.

He grinned at her. "You don't sleep either. You get up to pee at least twice a night. Have you thought about getting your kidney function checked?"

Her pink cheeks darkened to red. "You can hear that?"

"Absolutely."

"Oh God, I'm never going to be able to go to the bathroom again."

He laughed, genuinely amused.

Eventually her embarrassment faded a little and she smiled too. "I guess both of us are going to have to be careful if we ever need to get rid of a body during the night."

"There's really only one solution to me keeping you awake with my squeaky bed and you keeping me awake with your weak bladder."

"What's that?"

"Sharing a bedroom. Probably yours, if your bed is well-oiled."

"Right." She rolled her eyes.

She'd learned from their last encounter, House figured, not to take him seriously. But he was serious. He liked her. She was smart enough to entertain him, to keep up with him, and she had a nice body. She smelled good too – a floral scent that he couldn't identify, but it was warm and subtle.

On impulse, House leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers. It wasn't his most skilled kiss, but he lingered long enough to watch her eyelids flutter closed and for her lips to move against his. He pulled back a fraction and then kissed her again, their lips meeting gently, and she sighed.

Her lips parted under his, and House was just debating whether to deepen the kiss right away, or leave her wanting more when a cell phone rang.

_Leave her wanting more_ it was.

He pulled away. "That's not my phone." It was actually the same ringtone as he used, but his phone was in his pocket, and he had it set to vibrate.

"Oh."

Pleasingly she looked a little stunned, and it took her a moment to gather her thoughts and then walk over to her purse and grab her phone. She winced when she looked at the screen, but answered it anyway. "Charlie?"

House couldn't hear the voice at the other end of the phone, but Sarah's posture spoke volumes. Defensive and alert, all signs of the sexy relaxed woman he'd just been kissing had disappeared.

"It's not a good time, Charlie," she said after a while. She sounded hesitant, almost a little scared. "No, Charlie I can't tonight. I'm really sorry. I can do it tomorrow, though. Would that be okay?"

Whatever this Charlie said, it made Sarah wince again. She turned away from House and walked towards the kitchen, her steps stiff and rigid.

"I'm sorry."

House was intrigued. He paused the movie, hoping he'd be able to hear more of the other side of the conversation, but she was too far away and he couldn't hear more than a low mumbling.

Sarah said she was sorry another three or four times before she eventually hung up. She came back to the sofa with a weird, false smile plastered on her face. "Sorry about that."

"Clearly. I've never heard anyone apologize so profusely. What did you do?"

"I said 'no'." There was no mistaking the resignation in her voice.

"Who is this Charlie that you're not allowed to say 'no' to, then? A mafia don? Your pimp?"

Sarah gave a heavy sigh. "My sister, Charlotte."

House didn't know what to say to that, so he stayed silent.

"It's complicated," she said. She sat down on the sofa again and leaned forward to grab her wine. After draining the glass she sat back. "Shall we start the movie again?"

House was rarely interested in other people's family dramas. But playing it concerned, getting a woman to open up emotionally – he'd learned it was often a smooth way to get a woman to open up her legs, too.

He reached out and put a hand on her arm. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, hoping it sounded sincere.

She smiled. "No, I definitely do not. I would very much like to watch this movie and kiss you again."

_Excellent._ "We can do that."

"Not necessarily in that order."

He grinned. "We can do that too."

The kiss took up where they'd left off, a gentle melding of lips. But she took control, her mouth opening against his, her tongue tentatively flicking against his lips. It was good. House groaned, a deep noise in the back of his throat, and wrested back control. He shifted, moving closer to her, pushing her back against the arm of the sofa as their tongues met, sliding against each other.

She tasted sweet, of wine and spice, and he was surprised by the softness of the skin on her cheek as his fingers stroked and explored. She groaned when his fingertips fluttered down her neck, and he made a mental note to head that way with his lips. Soon. Once he'd had enough of tasting her mouth. It was too good to stop yet.

In fact, the wet heat of tangling tongues was rapidly shredding House's control. It had been too long between metaphorical drinks for him to enjoy an extended necking session. He wanted her with a desire that was rapidly becoming an ache. He pressed himself against her harder, the swells of her breasts flush against his chest. Her legs were both still awkwardly twisted over the front of the sofa – he'd fix that in a moment. The idea of pulling her legs around him, of coming to rest in the embrace of her thighs, sent a surge of blood south, and House delved deeper into her mouth, unable to stifle a moan at the almost painful pressure of his erection against his jeans.

She sighed into his mouth and he wondered if they needed to stop to breathe. Her hands were tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him to her, reaching inside the collar of his blue button-down, inside the stretchy neckline of his favorite black skull-patterned t-shirt.

"Ouch!" A sharp pain seared his shoulder. House pulled back and Sarah's hand snagged in his clothes, exacerbating the pain.

"What . . . ?" Sarah looked confused for a moment, but then held up her hand. The blood on her fingertips was a bright contrast to her pale skin.

She shook her head, her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath, her mouth red and swollen.

"Wait here," she said after a moment.

House swore under his breath and tunneled his fingers through his hair. His excitement rapidly deflated. He'd forgotten about that. In all the eagerness to find his dick a warm wet home for the night, he'd forgotten.

"You need to take off your shirt."

She was back, moving the pizza box so she could lay out first aid supplies neatly on the coffee table.

House couldn't see, but he could feel his t-shirt clinging to his skin, so she was likely right, it had got to the point that it did need to be attended to. Because of the location of the wound, on his shoulder, close to his neck, he couldn't see it directly, and it curved over to his back just enough to make it difficult to see in the mirror too, without contorting himself to try. Perhaps it was the very fact of its invisibility that had made it possible to use the injury the way he had.

"Shirt," Sarah said again, squeezing out a cloth in a bowl of water. He watched her arrange the bandages and antiseptic on the table. There she was, his Mother Theresa again, his guardian fucking angel.

House sucked in a breath. His pulse was still pounding from the kiss and it was adding to the ache in his shoulder. Was he going to let her see? He gave a mental shrug. If they were going to have sex, she'd see anyway.

He shrugged out of his unbuttoned shirt and then peeled his t-shirt over his head. He winced as the movement of his shoulder aggravated the pain.

Sarah knelt on the sofa next to him, pressing the cloth gently to his shoulder.

"You're going to get a scar if you don't let this heal."

"I don't care about scars."

"Right."

She sounded like she didn't believe him, and she'd be right. He had his vanity. He had, after all, been sure that the damage to his face had been properly treated. The grazes on his cheek and nose he'd had Chase attend to each day until they were gone.

No one had thought to ask about his shoulder. Not even Cuddy. Especially not Cuddy.

"You need to get someone to write you a script for some antibiotics."

"No, it's not that bad."

"Yeah, it is."

"I'll be fine."

"Smell this."

She held up the cloth in front of his nose. She was right. It had the faint stink of putrefaction. He'd pushed it too far.

There was silence while she applied antiseptic cream and a pad of gauze that she taped into place.

Finally she sat back on her heels and searched his eyes. House couldn't bring himself to look away.

"Greg, you need to find something else," she said eventually. Kindly.

She knew. Of course she knew. A competent medical professional would pick it. A psychiatric nurse would see it a mile away. Shame curdled his stomach. "Yeah. I know."

"Have you talked to anyone about your pain management?"

"It's not just the pain—" House said before cutting himself off. He wasn't going to turn what had been a promising looking night into a therapy session.

"Tell me," she said. She twisted around so she was sitting facing him, her hand on his knee.

House looked away.

"What happened that night?" she asked. Her tone was curious. No judgment. "This about more than just Alvie leaving, isn't it?"

He looked at her again, steeling himself against her compassion. God, the woman was just too good to be true. She'd make Saint Francis of Assisi kick puppies. And what was with her going on about Alvie all the time? He wasn't falling for this holier-than-thou crap she was pulling.

He put on his best sneer. "I don't get your obsession with Alvie," House said, more comfortable now he was on the attack. "You keep bringing him up. You told me you didn't sleep with him, but clearly something went on between you two."

"I promise you, nothing happened between me and Alvie. I thought he was flirting with me sometimes, but I never acted on it. He's not . . . my type."

"Not sane, you mean?"

"Not just that."

At least she didn't deny it outright – he wouldn't have believed her if she had. It was pretty obvious, even to strangers, that Alvie had mental health issues. That wasn't something most people wanted to get embroiled in. Why she was even still bothering with _him_ was a good question.

She sucked in a deep breath and then let it out in a rush, sinking back on the sofa cushions. "While we're talking about Alvie . . ."

"Go on," he prompted.

"I really enjoyed kissing you."

"The feeling is mutual."

"But . . . I'm not as cool with this whole bisexual thing as I'm trying to be."

"Huh?" _She was a lesbian?_ House mentally shrugged. He could deal with that. He'd quite enjoyed his evening in the lesbian bar with Thirteen.

"I don't expect you to marry me or anything," she said in a rush, "but if we sleep together I'd be doing it because I'd hope it would lead to . . . more opportunities to do it."

"I don't have a problem with that."

"So I just really need to know . . ."

House was about to tell her he didn't care. In fact, if she'd like to get more "cool" about it, maybe by practicing her bisexuality with him as an observer, he'd be more than happy to volunteer. And if things got serious? Well, there could be lots of advantages in living as part of a ménage a trios – a true household of three. There'd always be another woman around to handle the emotional maintenance of the relationship, for a start. Just so long as their menstrual cycles didn't sync up.

Sarah gave him a pained look, as if she were struggling with what she wanted to say. "So . . . Greg, is your main preference men or women?"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Thanks everyone for your lovely comments. It's so great to hear from you. Sorry for the short chapter, but I will post again soon. Just a heads up, the story will change to M rating from the next chapter. Cheers, G.

* * *

-

The man on Sarah's sofa roared with laughter.

He laughed so hard his face turned red and tears squeezed out from the corners of his eyes.

Sarah was puzzled, at first, then embarrassed, because clearly she'd got something really wrong. And then because his laughter was infectious, she began laughing with him – even though she still had no idea what was funny.

"You thought . . ." he wheezed eventually, wiping his face and struggling to draw a deep breath. "You thought me and Alvie . . ."

"You weren't?" Sarah stopped laughing.

He gasped. "Oh God. That's hilarious."

"You and Alvie were not a couple?" Sarah asked, because she wanted to be clear.

He sucked in another breath, trying hard to regain his composure. "If I were any straighter, I'd . . . I don't know. But here I was thinking you were about to tell me you were a lesbian – and let me assure you, I had absolutely no problem with that."

"You're so straight you like lesbians?"

"That'll do." He sighed in a kind of contented way and then drained the rest of his wine before collapsing back against the sofa cushions.

"Feel better?"

"Actually, I do. Can't remember the last time I laughed like that."

She liked the light-hearted expression on his face right now, the way his eyes shone with amusement. It was such a contrast to the haunted look he'd had when she was fixing up his wound.

He was still shirtless, and Sarah couldn't help admiring his body. He had broad shoulders, firm arms and a stomach that was really quite flat for someone his age. His chest was dusted with a whorl of brown-and-grey hair.

When her gaze flicked back to his face, his eyes had darkened, noting her review.

"You were going to sleep with me, even though you thought Alvie and I had been lovers," he said.

"I . . ." Sarah wasn't sure what to say.

"Did you still want to sleep with me after seeing this? It's pretty gross." He waved a hand over the bandage on his shoulder. "And you haven't seen my leg yet."

"I don't care about that." She was curious about it, but not turned off by it.

"Wow, you must be almost as screwed up as me."

"Probably."

He cocked his head on one side and raised an eyebrow. "Shall we go to bed?"

The question sent a tendril of heat through Sarah's body that added to the warmth already pulsing low in her belly from their kiss. His eyes were mesmerizing. The world was lucky he'd decided to become a doctor, Sarah thought, because if he'd decided to form his own cult religion there'd be no stopping him.

She was ready to sleep with him. She wanted to touch his body, feel his hands on her, kiss him again until she couldn't breathe. But even if it was going to drive that sparkle from his eyes, first she had to know . . . "What happened? That night I found you?"

His expression hardened, just as she'd predicted. "Can't we just skip that and get to the good part?"

"If it helps, the good part is guaranteed. I already made up my mind. I want to have sex with you, and nothing you say will change that."

"How can you be sure? What if I was to tell you I had a night pretending to be Dexter and carved up a woman's body?"

That gave her pause. He was joking, she was _mostly _sure. "Did you?" she asked.

"I . . . _crap._" He reached for his t-shirt and pulled it carefully over his head, protecting his damaged shoulder. Sarah was a little disappointed to lose the view of his bare skin, but she wasn't surprised. He was feeling too exposed. It was a natural reaction.

"Shift over." Sarah nudged him so that he made room on his right side. Once he'd moved across, she sat next to him, snuggling against his uninjured shoulder, pulling his arm around her.

"Watch the leg," he said.

She moved closer, pressing the soft part of her thigh against his. Even through the denim of his jeans, it felt uneven, and she wondered about the scar he might have there.

He sighed. She pressed a kiss to his neck, enjoying the tickle of his beard against her lips.

"Subtle," he said mockingly.

"I'm removing the pressure of having to maintain eye contact."

"Yeah, I know."

"So go on."

After a long pause he began to speak. "Remember the crane collapse in Trenton a couple of weeks ago?"

"Oh yeah, all those people were killed in that building and . . . _oh_." The dust. He'd been caked with it. Her fingers found his and squeezed them. Had he been a victim? Or lost a friend? She wanted to ask a million questions, but waited for him to tell her in his own time.

"There was a patient – I was there as part of the medical response team. Didn't want to be. I hate that stuff. But there was a woman, Hanna. Her left leg was pinned by concrete. It took hours – they tried to lift it, but it didn't work. I had to amputate on site. She died in the ambulance on the way to hospital – fat embolism."

So he really _had_ carved up a woman's body. She made a mental note to pay more attention to his jokes from now on. "I suppose there's no point me saying that it wasn't your fault."

"Nope."

"It wasn't, though."

"Tell her husband that."

"I would, if he was here."

He made a non-committal noise of disagreement.

"You've lost patients before."

"Yes."

"What was different this time?"

He was silent for so long, Sarah didn't think he was going to answer. His heart was a steady thump under her ear and then his chest rose and sank with a big breath.

"I . . . Everything had been going well. I felt like I had a handle on my life. And then it turned out that I didn't. And Hanna . . . and her leg . . . and my leg . . ."

"It hurt."

"Yeah, it hurt."

"And the drugs were a last resort."

"There didn't seem any point in _not_ taking them."

Pieces of the puzzle began to fit into place for Sarah. Alvie's talk about Mayfield, the people he'd met there. "You and Alvie were roommates at Mayfield."

"Yeah."

"And you let him stay with you?"

"'Let' isn't quite how I'd put it."

"Where have you been? How come I've never seen you in the building until a couple of weeks ago?"

"I was staying with a friend. My therapist thought it would be unhealthy for me to go back to living alone after I left Mayfield."

Sarah nodded. "Old habits, old patterns of behavior."

"Exactly. But my friend got a girlfriend and she moved in. They didn't need a third wheel, so my friend kicked me out."

Sarah squirmed at the thought. She remembered living with Charlie and feeling very much like the third wheel on occasion. Sometimes even when it had only been just the two of them. "Oh, how uncomfortable."

"Yeah. And while we're being all exposition-y, a woman I sort of had this ongoing flirtation with got engaged to her boyfriend."

"All that and then the crane crash and Hanna's death on top of it?"

"Yeah."

"No wonder you headed for the Vicodin."

He twisted around so he could see her face. "You really mean that?"

Sarah frowned. "Of course. That was a huge number of triggers all in a short period of time. Most people wouldn't be able to cope with just one of those things."

"It . . . wasn't easy." The pain in his eyes told her that was the understatement of the century.

"But you didn't take them." She sucked in a breath, wondering how to word what she wanted to say without making him feel defensive. "Greg, I don't want to sound condescending or like I'm trying to minimize what you went through, but the important thing is that _you didn't take them_. You fought with them, and you won. You should be really proud of yourself. It's a huge credit to your will and strength."

He looked faintly embarrassed – Sarah was sure she detected a flush of color on his cheeks. "Has no one ever told you that?"

"Mostly I just tend to get lectures or disappointed looks."

Sarah didn't say anything. She knew how impossible it could be for the friends and loved ones of addicts to watch the addict fail to win, time after time. Hell, she'd been there herself. But lectures and disappointment mostly did nothing but make everyone feel bad.

"I'm not an expert in addiction, but I've had experience in the area," she said after he'd been silent for a while. She let him assume the experience was clinical, not personal. "And what I saw in your bathroom that day was a triumph. A victory. And I think the next time you'll be even stronger."

"Next time," he muttered.

"Hopefully there won't be one." But there probably will, she thought.

"But there probably will," he said.

She shrugged. "Maybe not." She wondered how to approach the issue of his shoulder. She knew there was more to it than using the wound to distract his brain from the pain in his leg. "Greg – what was Hanna like?"

"Huh?"

"Tell me," she encouraged.

It took him a while, but then he hesitantly spoke of a woman in love with her husband, a woman who'd faced an impossible situation with dignity and strength, a woman who'd died before she should have.

"And what do you think she'd say if she knew you were refusing to let your shoulder heal?" Sarah asked after he'd finished.

He didn't say anything, but his body stiffened.

"You said before that it's not just about using it to help manage the pain in your leg. It's about her, isn't it? If you let it heal, then you let her memory go. You stop feeling the guilt you want to feel about her death."

She knew a moment after the words left her mouth that she'd pushed it too far.

He shook out from her embrace and his eyes flashed with anger. "I came here for pizza, a movie, and hopefully a fuck. Do we really have to play 'therapy'? What is it about you that you need to get into this?"

Sarah flinched at his swearing and at his words. He was right. What was it about her that made her turn every conversation into a therapy session? Why couldn't she just flirt like a normal woman? What was it about her that was attracted to . . . _fixing_ people? "I'm sorry . . . I . . ."

He didn't let her finish. "At least I know I'm screwed up. But you're in another league. Acting all superior because you were friends with Alvie; as if you're better than everyone else. You didn't even flinch when you realized you were kissing someone who sticks a nail file into an open wound to play with pain gating. That's fucked up. It's not right to just accept it. Being all _understanding_ and—"

He broke off and stood up, grabbing his cane from where he'd rested it against her side table. In a matter of three or four long, angry strides, he was at her door, throwing it open.

"You're such a . . . such a _nurse!_" He spat the word as if it were the worst insult in the world before slamming the door behind him.

Sarah collapsed into the sofa and stared unseeingly at the frozen image of Jimmy Stewart in his wheelchair on the TV. Vaguely she thought she should take the DVD off pause – didn't it damage them or something?

The words he'd spoken bounced around inside her head. Screwed up? Oh yeah, there was no escaping that. She was just really, _really_ good at hiding it from others. Most of the time. Almost twenty years as a psychiatric nurse and you did learn some things.

She checked her watch. It was only just after nine.

She reached for her phone and dialed. "Charlie? It's me. I'm sorry about before. Do you still need me? I finished earlier than I expected."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **This story is now rated 'M'.

* * *

On Monday afternoon, Sarah slipped the _Rear Window_ DVD through Greg House's mailbox slot. She figured he might have loaned it from somewhere and need to return it, although it didn't have any stickers on it.

She wondered if she'd ever see her casserole dish again.

On Tuesday morning she was on her way to work when he opened his door and came rushing out, almost crashing into her. He didn't say anything, only glared and pushed the building door open, charging through it first, very deliberately. She watched him climb on an orange motorbike and zoom away, wondering how much of their 'accidental' collision had been on purpose.

On Wednesday evening she took some trash downstairs and found her blackened casserole dish in the dumpster. Someone had made a half-hearted effort to clean it and given up. She didn't bother rescuing it.

On Thursday night she didn't think he slept at all. Neither did she, obviously. He tossed around in his bed like it was a boat on a stormy ocean, the timber furniture creaking and groaning obscenely.

It wasn't until three a.m. that she realized he might just be doing it on purpose. She got up and filled a bucket with water then tipped it noisily into the toilet. She did it three more times, flushing each time, just for the hell of it. After that things grew silent and she finally got some sleep.

On Friday she came home and collected her mail as usual. She usually never unlocked her mailbox, with her long, thin fingers, she'd always been able to just reach in through the slot and pinch her mail out again. But this time her fingers encountered something . . . _gross._

"Ew!"

Brown, sticky, gelatinous, and smelling of . . . _chocolate?_

Someone had filled her mailbox with chocolate pudding. It took almost half an hour to clean it up by the time she'd lugged cleaning gear down and up the stairs again.

She couldn't help being aware that the door to apartment B looked straight at the mailboxes, and a prickle on the back of her neck told her she was being watched. But there were no tell-tale shadows or giveaway shuffles that let her know for sure that someone was watching through the peephole.

The cleaning killed her back. Lugging the bucket of water up and down the stairs along with the bending and reaching to clean out the small, awkward space was just the wrong thing for her damaged spine. She made an appointment with her osteopath for the next day.

Early Saturday someone left a paper bag with a coffee and a croissant at her front door. She almost tripped over it on her way out to her osteo appointment. It was from _Pain au Chocolate_, the French bakery down the street. Her usual Saturday routine was to go to the bakery for exactly what was in the bag – a chocolate croissant and a latte with hazelnut flavoring – and then come home and read the newspaper, hoping that there wouldn't be any photos of Charlie in it.

It was a little disturbing, Sarah thought as she chewed on her croissant and sipped her lukewarm coffee as she walked the seven blocks to the clinic. How did he know the exact details of her order? Half of her waited for her stomach to show signs of poisoning – wondering if her chocolate-filled croissant had been laxative-filled instead. But nothing like that happened.

She honestly couldn't work out if this was wooing or payback.

On Sunday evening Sarah paced around her apartment. If he still wanted to do movie night, then it was his night to host it. After what had happened last Sunday, she'd resigned herself to that being the end to her friendship – or whatever it was – with Greg House. But after the events during the week she wasn't so sure.

His pranks were juvenile, but didn't have the "spurned lover" bitterness to them. And the coffee and pastry? That had just been sweet.

After psyching herself up for an hour, Sarah marched herself downstairs. She'd decided that she'd knock and when he answered the door, she'd check his facial expression. If he looked pleased to see her, she'd ask if they were still doing movie night. If he didn't look pleased to see her, she'd ask for her casserole dish back. He wasn't to know she already knew it was in the dumpster.

Sarah stood in front of the green door and blew out a breath like a boxer taking to the ring. She knocked.

No answer.

She knocked again, more definitively this time.

No answer.

Ashamed of herself, but unable to help it, she pressed her ear to the door. She couldn't tell – it didn't sound like anyone was home, but . . .

She went back upstairs. When she went to bed, she entertained herself with memories of the kiss they'd shared, her hand sneaking down her body to do what she'd hoped he might have done if they'd had the chance.

* * *

Later that night Sarah woke up from her usual light sleep by the sound of a door slamming shut. _That guy in apartment A!_ She punched the pillow as she tried to settle herself again. She was going to lodge a complaint about him.

Then there were other crashing noises, but she realized they were definitely coming from the apartment below.

_So he hadn't been home when she'd knocked earlier._

Something shattered against a wall. It was enough to startle her and get her heart racing.

Greg House had a problem with breaking stuff when things went wrong.

She didn't know how she knew it, but she could tell. Something had gone wrong.

It went silent for a while and Sarah wondered if whatever the crashing thing had been, it had revealed yet another hidden stash of drugs.

Then, the last sound she could have expected.

_Chopin. _

It wasn't a CD, the playing was too fresh, too personal. It stopped and started a number of times.

The music was like a river of pain flooding up through the floorboards, surrounding her, washing over her, drowning her.

Tears tracked down her cheeks, creating a damp spot on the pillow beneath her, but she was powerless to stop them.

As the music went on, she found she could no longer stay in her bed.

She got up and pulled on a pale blue silk robe over the threadbare t-shirt she wore to sleep in. Like an automaton, not fully thinking through what she was doing, she left her apartment and padded downstairs in bare feet. She didn't knock, just tried the door to apartment B, unsurprised when it opened easily. She closed the door behind her and went over to stand beside him.

He sat at the piano, still playing, a full glass of whisky and one of those orange vials sitting where sheet music should be. He gave her a glance, but continued playing.

Sarah stood motionless, watching his fingers move.

The impulse that had propelled her out of bed, down the stairs, into this man's apartment began to fade.

What was she doing here?

What had she thought to achieve?

And then with a growl, he slammed his hands on the keys. He stood up suddenly, tipping the piano stool to the floor with a loud crash, and grabbed her.

His mouth collided with hers so violently it was painful. Teeth clashed as his tongue sought entry to her mouth. Shocked, Sarah didn't respond for a moment until her brain caught up with her body.

_Surrender._

The word whispered through her and she felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

Her mouth opened to his plunder and her hands gripped his shoulders for balance against his fierce attack. His hands clamped over her bottom, pulling her to him, his pelvis grinding against her as if he planned to enter her heedless of the layers of clothing between them.

His mouth ripped from hers, leaving them both gasping. He looked into her eyes for a moment and whatever he saw there he must have been satisfied with, because he lowered his head and kissed her neck, licking and biting, working his way up to her ear. He took her earlobe into his mouth for a suck, raking his teeth over it before releasing it with a pop.

With a voice that was barely more than a breath, he said, "Someone died."

Sarah nodded. "I know."

He paused for a moment. "This is really screwed up."

"I know." Sarah reached for his jeans, undid his belt and popped the button.

He found the tie of her robe and as soon as it was free his hands circled her waist. His thumbs stroked her belly for a moment – an instant of tenderness – then skated over her hips, seeking the hem of her shirt. As soon as he found it, he raked it up, grabbed the lacy edges of her panties and pulled them down. Sarah wriggled to assist and then stepped out of the lacy scrap when it fell to the floor. She continued to work on his jeans, undoing the zipper, pushing them down to mid thigh, his black boxer briefs going with them.

His mouth met hers again, just as forcefully as before. He reached under her shirt and grasped her breast, clutching it almost painfully tight. Sarah groaned.

Her knees weren't going to hold her up much longer. The throb of need in her belly was acute, an aching pain that only one thing would cure.

Moving blindly they reached the sofa, collapsing onto it without releasing each others' mouths. Sarah's breath left her lungs as his weight fell on top of her, but she wrapped her arms around his back to hold him tighter.

He wriggled his hand between them and shifted so he could touch her intimately. A shiver coiled up her spine as his fingers found her center, brushing over it with a teasing touch before plunging lower, delving inside.

She knew he'd find her more than ready, her arousal was pitched and it only added to the fantasies she'd entertained earlier in the night. He made a grunting noise of satisfaction and then his fingers were gone, replaced by something thicker, harder and—

He didn't wait, plunging into her in one long brutal thrust.

Sarah gasped, her back arching, not sure if she was trying to pull away from the sudden intrusion or draw him deeper.

His tongue was in her mouth, stroking her own, and Sarah was invaded, overwhelmed, overtaken by him. He was everywhere. The pressure of his weight on top of her, the unrestrained power of his body as he took her over and over with ruthless force, the way he sucked her very breath from her with his kiss, the tight clasp of his hand over her breast – it was enough to send a shudder of pure fear through her. A thrill that took her close to the edge while also scaring her silly. That couldn't be good.

She was about to ask him to stop, to back off the intensity at least, when he froze above her. He shuddered and lifted his mouth from hers as he groaned, a tortured sound of almost pain. He moved within her three or four more times, spasms wracking his body, fierce enough that she felt them inside her, felt the warmth and agony of his release.

He collapsed on top of her, his breath rasping in shallow gasps through his body.

Sarah sucked in a breath, as deep as she could manage with a one-hundred-eighty pound man lying on top of her.

"M'srry," he mumbled. He twisted, slipping out of her in a wet gush of fluids.

Sarah grabbed him before he could completely move off her. "No, wait." She took his hand and guided it to her still aching core. "Touch me while you're still holding me down," she whispered. To be sure he understood she wrapped her other hand around his back, tightly.

As his obedient fingers began to play her expertly, she sought his mouth with her own, begging wordlessly for another of those punishing kisses. He seemed to understand what she needed, as his tongue thrust inside her mouth, setting up a stroking rhythm that matched that of his hand.

Sarah pushed into him, thrusting her pelvis into his fingers, her breast into his still-tight grip, her mouth into his. In response he shifted further on top of her, pinning her with his weight, wrapping his legs over hers, crushing her lungs so she couldn't breathe, even if he'd released her mouth to make it possible to do so.

A moment of stillness as her body accepted the inevitable. Then her orgasm pulsated through her, dragging a cry from her choked throat. He kept up the pressure against her clit, drawing it out, playing her as skillfully as he'd played the piano. He swallowed her cries and continued his torture of her breast until she was in danger of blacking out.

Frantically she shook her head, ripping away from his kiss until she could drag in a ragged gasp of air.

He stopped moving, but didn't shift, laying still on top of her, his only movement the harsh shudder of his chest as he fought for breath in the same way she was. Then, eventually, he twisted to the side, almost pushing her off the edge of the sofa. His arm wrapped around her, just enough of an anchor to hold her safe. He released her breast to do so, and an aftershock went through her as the blood flow resumed, enough to make her groan and arch into him, seeking pressure, even if it was just the press of his chest against hers.

He buried his head in her neck, the rush of his breath rippling across her skin.

They didn't speak for several minutes, even once they both had their breath back. Sarah's robe was twisted uncomfortably underneath her, and her t-shirt stretched across her belly, pinched by his twisting move. His jeans and boxers were in a rumpled heap around his knees; he still had his shoes on. A rumpled blue shirt covered his torso and arms, not even a single button was undone.

A wet patch was slowly spreading across the leather seat beneath her.

It was that that made her move. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and then shifted out from beside him, twisting around to swing her legs to the floor. She waited for a moment as lights twinkled in the periphery of her vision, giving her heart time to get the blood back to her head. She began to feel the first twinges in her back that told her she wouldn't escape this little adventure unscathed, but pushed them away. She'd worry about that later.

In the bathroom she wadded up some toilet paper and wiped herself clean as best she could and grabbed a hand towel. By the time she returned from the bathroom he was sitting up too, jeans and boxers hitched into place, his head in his hands. He turned his head slowly to look at her.

Sarah wasn't sure what to make of the expression on his face. Regret? Sorrow? It certainly wasn't a look of satisfied pleasure.

She spread the towel over the seat and patted it.

"I'm going to bed," he announced.

"Uh, right." What did that mean? Was she invited? She stepped back to search his face. His eyes burned into hers, but they'd gone all shuttered again, pools of blue that only reflected, didn't reveal.

He tore his gaze away and stood, muffling a groan as his weight went on his right leg. He pressed an open palm to his thigh and turned away, limping up the corridor with a clinking sound as his still-undone belt flicked with each step.

Sarah let out a breath. What now? She looked around the living room. A shattered vase sprinkled one corner of the floor with shards of porcelain. The pills and drink still sat on top of the piano.

She shrugged, not sure what else to do. Heading for the door, she had second thoughts and dashed back to the piano, grabbing the vial of Vicodin. Slipping it into the pocket of her robe, she let herself out and headed back upstairs.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Remember, we're going AU season 7 here, so I've stolen a few events from episodes, but things work out differently in this version. A few people didn't like the last chapter – if it wasn't your thing, then I have to warn you that this whole story might not be your thing. Since Cuddy's lurve didn't "cure" him here, House is still trying to deal with all the things he was trying to deal with on that bathroom floor in "Help Me" when he battled the Vicodin, so it's not going to be pretty. This is not going to be a light and fluffy romance, but if you're up for a bit of angst and emotional torture, hang in there.

* * *

Returning from work Monday afternoon, Sarah noticed the curtains were closed in Apartment B. She wondered about knocking, but didn't know what she'd say if he did open the door.

Fatigue wore heavily on her shoulders. A stressful day after barely a few hours' sleep had left her feeling washed out. And the physio at work had given her back a beating – literally – as she paid the price for the previous night's gymnastics. She didn't have the energy to cope with Greg House, especially as he was the main reason for her exhaustion.

She grabbed her mail and headed upstairs, wondering if he was listening to her footsteps, if he could hear her move around in her apartment.

Pouring a glass of wine and slipping her shoes off, Sarah slumped onto the sofa and turned on the TV. All she felt like tonight was some mind-numbing sit-com, some even more mind-numbing wine and a decent night's sleep, courtesy of the beautifully mind-numbing Mister Valium.

She absently flicked through her mail. An electricity bill. A letter from her member of congress. Junk mail from a travel agent offering her the holiday of a lifetime.

The last envelope in the pile was plain white and had "_SARAH_" in all capital letters on it, handwritten black ink.

It was Greg House's handwriting, she somehow knew without doubt. Putting down her wine she tore open the envelope with a growing sense of anticipation.

Even though she hadn't been expecting a love note she still gasped in shock when she pulled out the hastily scrawled piece of paper inside.

A script for the morning-after pill.

_Dr Gregory House, Princeton Plainsboro Hospital. _

Nothing else. No note. No scribbled apology. No token of remorse.

Wasn't that just what every girl wanted to receive after a night of sex? So much for flowers.

Sarah crumpled the paper in her hand and threw it to the floor.

Her rational mind tried to reason it out. He wasn't to know she was on the pill. It was actually kind of a caring thing to do in a way.

_Yeah, and then he shoved it in her mailbox instead of talking to her like a grown up. Real caring. Why hadn't he gone the whole hog and included a leaflet on STDs? _

The thought sent a chill down her spine. She supposed she should get checked out. Just because he was straight didn't mean he was clean. Given he had a specialty in infectious diseases, she supposed she didn't have too much to worry about. Then again, she knew at least two oncologists who smoked, so it didn't necessarily follow.

Later that night as she undressed, Sarah looked at herself in the mirror. Her right breast had three oval-shaped bruises on it – unmistakably marks made by fingers. She had a lingering soreness between her legs from her tissues being stretched so quickly and so roughly, although it was an almost pleasurable ache, like the twinge of muscles after a good workout.

She lay in bed and listened to the silence for a few minutes before her medication did its work and she was out until her alarm sounded to wake her for work the next morning.

* * *

**Friday**

House knew everyone was on tenterhooks around him. They were all waiting for the crash and some of them seemed slightly disappointed it hadn't come yet. He wondered if maybe there was a pool going on the date he'd be re-committed to Mayfield. It'd make sense. Hell, if it weren't for the fact that no respectable bookie would allow it, he'd want in on it.

When that kid had died on Sunday, he'd thought he was only a few hours from the short bus himself.

Yet another argument with Cuddy as she tried to interfere with his treatment of the teen. He'd wanted to fill her lung with foam. Cuddy argued it should be sutured. Yet another "do it anyway and damn the consequences from administrators" lecture to his team. None of it worked. The kid had just kept getting sicker and sicker and refused to allow the transplant from her brother. Cuddy had argued every step of the way. House had no idea if it was her usual cautious argument against his radical ideas, or if it was prompted by a new level of disgust for him now that she wore that overblown diamond on her left hand.

The family had lost their daughter and in a few years, they'd lose their son too. He could argue it hadn't been his fault – rationally he knew that. Just like rationally he understood that Hanna's death hadn't been his fault either.

The only emotion that seemed to cut through his general lassitude and ennui was anger. He was goddamned angry, but about exactly what he wasn't sure. Smashing things brought a moment of satisfaction. Yelling at people wasn't quite as good but it was a small release. Hurting other people . . .

He didn't want to think any further about that one.

He'd stolen a bottle of pills from the hospital last night. Yes, that would catch up with him eventually.

Only he'd never actually taken any. He'd downed a shot of whisky, played some piano, and then . . . He might not want to think about it, but his brain wasn't giving him any choice.

His stomach clenched every time he thought about Sarah. About how rough he'd been and how much he'd been turned on by her capitulation. He was both repelled and aroused by the memory.

Hopefully now she understood that she was better off without him, without trying to be friends with him – let alone anything else. He was sure if his lovemaking hadn't done that, then the prescription he'd left in her mailbox would.

She seemed to work fairly standard hours. He'd just make sure to avoid her. It wouldn't be hard. Last week when he had been still interested in cultivating her company it had been ridiculously easy to ascertain her schedule. First thing she always did when she got home was check her mail. Her trash contained boxes from _Pain au Chocolate_, it wasn't hard to find out her usual order. The chocolate pudding . . . well that had just been for fun. He'd grinned from behind the peephole of his door as he'd watched her clean it out, her face getting all red and sweaty and annoyed.

He sat in his office, spinning his chair slowly. It was late. Late enough that he could go home without risk of running into Sarah retuning from her own workplace. Late enough that his team wouldn't be surprised that he'd disappeared.

His newest patient was an author – one of his favorite authors actually, but he couldn't bring himself to muster much enthusiasm.

Given he was listening to the clock tick down on his own dwindling sanity, there wasn't much that made a difference.

Instead he reached for the mouse, jiggling it to bring his computer back to life. He accessed the personnel records for PPTH and looked up "Sarah Hardiman". She'd done some agency work at the hospital a few years ago. In the under-funded, under-staffed emergency psychiatric ward. A place House went out of his way to avoid. There was no reason they'd have met while she'd worked at PPTH.

He flicked across to Google and repeated the search. Nothing really. A few records in a local women's basketball tournament, but nothing since about a year before.

He wondered if there was a way to find out which respite center she was working at. If she was an administrator, would Cuddy have her contact details somehow? Was there an administrators network of some kind?

He blew out a breath and sank back in his chair. It was pointless and stupid anyway. What did he care? It didn't matter where she worked.

It just mattered that she'd complicated his life.

All this having to juggle his schedule to avoid her was annoying. Maybe he wouldn't do that anymore. Hell, what did it matter if they ran into each other? If she was the bunny boiler type, he'd have known that by now. All he'd noticed from her was silence. She even seemed to have stopped her nightly peeing ritual. Perversely, House kind of missed it.

It was two days until Sunday night. Movie night should have been back at her apartment this week. Was he going to be brave enough to go up those stairs and see if she opened the door to him? And if she did, then what?

Ideas of exactly "then what" sent a surge of blood south.

The possibilities made it worth a trip up the stairs. They probably made it worth having to make a groveling apology for leaving the script in her mailbox like that – even if he had just been being practical.

He wondered if she'd had it filled. Hoped she had. If she'd started taking it Monday, then by Sunday . . . yeah, likely she'd be fine.

With a surge of energy he hadn't known he'd possessed, House gathered up his things and headed home. He'd just pulled up his bike and turned the motor off when he saw her in the street, about to slip into a cab. He called out to stop her.

"Sarah!"

She hesitated, one foot in the cab, and looked around. When she saw him, she frowned, but she stepped back on the sidewalk.

House looked her up and down as he fumbled to grab his cane. Wherever she was going, she looked _gorgeous_. She wore a peacock blue cocktail dress, shiny black heels, pearls in her ears and her hair was piled on her head. Her eyes were rimmed with black, which made the hazel look somehow greener, and her full lips were a bright siren red that shouted "Warning Wil Robertson!" to his dick.

A few steps and he was close enough to smell her perfume, to see the look of trepidation in her eyes.

_She was scared of him? _

After how he'd brutalized her, she had every right to be, he told himself. It took the wind out of his sails, dried up the saucy come-on lines that he'd been about to spout.

Instead he raised one arm ineffectually, as if to touch her, but it fell back to his side. "I'm . . . I wondered if you were feeling okay," he said lamely.

"I'm fine," she said, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder.

"I know those pills can knock you around a little . . ."

"It's okay, I didn't need them. I was already protected."

"Oh."

"But thank you, anyway."

She didn't meet his eyes and she didn't sound grateful, but then what had he expected? If he'd wanted to continue seeing this woman, he'd have spoken to her, discussed the contraception that he'd skipped in the fury to get his hands on her, and then made a date to do it again. Maybe he'd even have bought her dinner first. Not shoved a script in her mailbox.

"Sarah, I . . ." _What? _He foundered. "Where are you off to?" he ended up asking lamely.

"I'm, uh, going out with my sister."

"The mysterious Charlie."

She seemed surprised that he remembered the name, and she nodded. "Yes, the mysterious Charlie."

"Where are you going? You're all dressed up."

"I do that sometimes."

He noted her avoidance of the question. It was the perfect opportunity to compliment her. Tell her how the dress highlighted her figure. How the shoes made her legs look never-endingly long. How the lipstick made him want to get her on her knees and—

"Well, have a nice night," he said.

She looked puzzled, as if she'd been expecting him to say something different. "Thanks, you too."

Then she climbed in the cab and was gone.

House swore under his breath.

* * *

"I'm sorry ma'am, your name is not on the guest list."

"Please, check again. Charlie invited me herself." Sarah shivered. If she'd known she was going to be standing outside in the cold this long she'd have brought a coat.

"Charlie?" he asked with a disbelieving look.

"Charlotte."

"Charlotte Hardiman?"

"Yes. I'm her sister."

"Sorry ma'am, but your name is not on the guest list. If you want to wait, you'll have to stand out of the way of the entrance."

The burly bouncer didn't look the least bit sorry.

Sarah surveyed the crowd that had gathered around the entrance to one of the most exclusive restaurants in Philadelphia. Someone had put out plush red ropes to keep the fawning fans back and Sarah didn't relish joining the throng.

"Look, can I just go inside and grab a drink?" she tried one last time.

He shook his head. Clearly he thought she was just another nutcase trying to gain access to Charlotte Hardiman's entourage.

Sarah's shoulders slumped. She walked around the gathered crowd and stopped in front of the Starbucks next door. Maybe she could go in and get a coffee – at least it would be warmer there. And then she could go back and try again once Charlie arrived and the crowd thinned out.

She tried Charlie's cell phone for the third time that night. Voicemail, again. "Charlie? It's Sarah. Someone forgot to put me on the guest list. I'm outside the restaurant. Can you please let me know when you get here?" Pointless, because there'd be no need for her sister to let her know when she arrived. Sarah knew the noise from the crowd would give it away.

She stepped inside Starbucks and shivered as the warm air hit her chilled skin, and cursed herself again for not bringing a jacket. But it had seemed so easy – a quick train ride from Princeton to Philadelphia, a taxi to the restaurant, the same on the way home. The Fall weather was only just turning, only just developing a chill. She'd thought she'd be fine.

Sarah had just taken a sip of her comfortingly hot hazelnut latte when the buzz of the crowd next door picked up exponentially. She grabbed her purse and her coffee and headed back outside into the cold evening air, finding a fleet of limos had pulled up in the street.

There was no way she could get close to the restaurant entrance now, the crowd had gathered in tightly, all waiting for their moment. The moment when they had a brush with fame. When a face that usually only graced their movie and TV screens appeared in real life in front of them.

Sarah managed to jockey for a position at the edge of the crowd near the curb. If she craned her neck, she could see the red carpeted sidewalk clearly.

And then her sister appeared. Her beautiful, awful, little sister, awash in silver sparkles, her unnaturally white-blonde hair flowing down her back. She scanned the crowd, her hand raised in a royal-style greeting, a smile fixed on her face.

Sarah felt the exact moment that Charlie's eyes met hers. They gleamed, not in pleasure at seeing her sister, but in triumph.

An eel of betrayal slithered down her spine. Sarah knew then that she hadn't been accidentally left off the guest list.

She shouldn't have been surprised. It wasn't the first time that Charlie had set out to deliberately humiliate her. It was punishment, she knew, for the night two weeks ago that she'd said "no". It was punishment for all the things that Sarah had done wrong and nothing she could do would ever make amends.

Once she'd held Sarah's eyes for a few moments, Charlie's gaze moved on, sweeping over her adoring public.

The squealing girls next to Sarah jostled for a better position, pushing Sarah. She lost her balance, her ankle overturning the curb in her ridiculously high heels. The rasp of the concrete was harsh against her shin as she staggered. Her still-full coffee splashed over her, sending a scalding-hot streak down the front of her dress.

"Sarah."

A tuxedoed arm steadied her before she fell to her knees. Miles. Of course.

"Thanks Miles," she stammered, trying to regain her balance, wincing when the weight went on to her ankle. She'd probably sprained it. Damn.

Tears sprung to her eyes, but she blinked them back.

"What are you doing out here?"

Sarah had always liked Charlie's manager. She didn't trust him as far as she could spit a rat, but she liked him.

"I'm sorry, Charlie didn't tell me she'd invited you," he said, obviously putting two-and-two together and coming up with Sarah's name absent from the guest list. "I can fix that right away though. Why don't you come in with me?"

She knew how it would play out. Charlie would come over with big hugs and kisses and scold Miles for forgetting Sarah's name on the list. Miles would take the rap, while all three of them would know what had really happened. Sarah would grin and bear it, and suffer through a night of plastic people drinking champagne they didn't appreciate, talking crap that didn't mean anything. She hated these nights. She only turned up to this one because Charlie had pleaded with her. All her special nights usually happened in LA or New York, where Sarah couldn't attend. Charlie wanted Sarah to see. Wanted to show off.

"Thanks Miles. I'm cold, I think I'll go home." Besides the fact that her dress was ruined. There was no way she could walk in there with a coffee stain down her front.

"Here." He began to take his jacket off.

"No, no." Sarah waved her hands. "I don't know how I'd get it back to you. I think I'll just head home. Can you let Charlie know . . ." _What to tell her sister?_ What could she say that wouldn't simply ensure a harsher punishment next time?

She looked down at her bloodied and already swelling ankle.

"Can you tell her I hurt myself? I got caught in the stampede of fans and sprained my ankle?"

Miles looked down at her foot and winced. "That looks nasty."

"It's fine really. I can take care of it."

"If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

He gave her a sad smile and then turned back to get on with his duty. Sarah reached out and grabbed his jacket before he disappeared. "Miles, don't forget, I didn't just sprain my ankle. I got caught in the crush of fans."

He quirked his mouth up in a knowing grin. "Give me some credit, Sarah. I've been working with your sister for years now. I know how to play it."

The ride home was cold and cheerless and her ankle throbbed. The coffee soaked into her dress and sent a sour smell into her nose every time she breathed in.

She limped up the stairs to her apartment, her heels thumping heavily with her steps. Inside, she tore off her dress, not caring about the sound of ripping seams as she fought to free herself from the silk sheath. It was ruined anyway. She only made it another few steps into the apartment before she collapsed.

Curling into a ball, she let the tears come.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Thank you all for your amazing and kind comments - they mean so much to me. A warning on the content of this chapter, it contains *implied* non-consensual sex.

* * *

House hadn't been lying awake waiting for her to come home. _Not really_. He just couldn't sleep. And even if he had been asleep, the sound of elephant stomping as she staggered up the stairs would have woken the dead.

She was either drunk or limping, he guessed from her staggering heavy gait.

Her door opened with a bang.

A moment later there was a thump. Something heavy hitting the floor.

Then stillness.

House had no idea why, but he had the sudden thought that something was wrong. He waited a while longer, hoping to hear the sounds of water in the bathroom, someone fixing coffee in the kitchen, even the TV going on. Nothing.

The silence stretched on.

_He didn't owe her anything. _

And yet he got up, pulled a dressing gown over his t-shirt and pajama pants and shoved his feet into the nearest pair of sneakers. He made his way slowly up the stairs, still not sure if this was a good idea, not even sure if he'd be welcome.

Her door was ajar, just a fraction, making him more sure that something was wrong. Or had she left it open in the hope he'd come? Maybe he'd be more welcome than he'd first thought.

He stepped inside, not sure what he'd find.

Sarah was curled up on the floor, one leg sticking out awkwardly.

The first thing he noticed was the fire-engine red underwear. Panels of lace lovingly cupped her bottom, and more lace crossed her back and extended up ornate bra straps. Curled up as she was, he couldn't see her front, but the idea that her breasts were similarly encased in soft, translucent lace made him instantly hard.

The second thing House noticed was the way her breath was coming in sharp, uneven, shudders.

He closed the door behind him with a quiet snick. "Are you okay?" Dumb question, but it seemed like the place to start.

Sarah didn't move, didn't react to his presence in any way. House wondered again if she'd hoped he'd appear.

He knelt down beside her, and put a hand to her back. She shivered at the contact, and House was surprised to feel how cold her skin was. He looked down at her awkwardly thrust out leg and registered the blood and flowering bruise across her swollen ankle.

"Nasty," he said. But not worth a crying jag like this.

He regretted coming upstairs. Hysterical, emotional women were not his strong suit. And definitely not an aphrodisiac – despite the lace.

He settled more comfortably on the floor and lifted her injured leg gently into his lap. He rotated her foot, felt along the bones, carefully examined the graze.

"You'll live," he announced. "It's not broken. Just a mild sprain. Ice and a bandage for a couple of days and you'll be good as new."

She shuddered a breath and made some indecipherable noise. She seemed to be making an effort to control herself, but remained curled up, hiding her face from him with her arm.

House got to his feet again with a groan. "Where's your first aid kit? Bathroom?"

Without waiting for an answer he headed down the corridor. It was slightly _Twilight Zone-y_ to be in an apartment identical to his own – only _not_. Her bathroom had almost identical fixtures; her bedroom seemed much like the living room – sparsely furnished and white.

He quickly located the first aid kit and grabbed a washcloth, returning to the living room.

"Do you think we'll ever get together without one of us needing first aid?" he asked as he washed and dressed her ankle.

She snorted what might have been a strangled laugh. One hand shot out and she reached for her purse on the floor next to her, scrambling inside it until she pulled out a tissue. Still without showing him her face, she blew her nose and sucked in deeper breaths to try to calm herself.

"Want to tell me what happened?" he asked, not sure if wanted to know. He taped a light bandage in place over her ankle, then wrapped his hands around her calf just above her injury, gently massaging. She should ice the joint, but there was no instant cold pack in her kit, and he couldn't be bothered getting up to the freezer.

Sitting like this next to her, stroking her smooth calf, reignited the arousal that had been quashed by her tears. The red lace of her panties was hitched up on one side, revealing the lower curve of her peach-like ass. He wanted to nuzzle it, bite it.

"No," Sarah said, her voice shaky and gritty with tears.

At first House thought she was commenting on his thoughts – then he realized she was telling him she didn't want to talk about whatever had happened to provoke the tears. _Excellent_.

So now what? House wasn't going to push her to talk. But she was still just laying there, a prickle of goosebumps over her flesh. A strange but not unpleasant smell of coffee and flowers rose from her body.

Without thinking it through, he followed his initial impulse. He leaned over and pressed his mouth to the edge of her panties, nuzzling his nose into the soft cheek of her ass.

She jumped, startled, but then twisted her body so she was almost lying on her stomach. It served to hide her front more fully, but also gave him better access to her delectable ass.

He nibbled down the edge of her raked-up panties until he reached that temptingly revealed piece of flesh and did exactly what he'd imagined doing. He took it between his teeth and bit down, not gently. She gasped, and he kissed and licked at the teeth imprints he'd left in her skin.

He moved up her body, biting and kissing and licking her revealed skin until he reached her shoulder. He looked down and relished the line of red flesh he'd left in his wake. Sarah still lay twisted up, almost fetal, and she was shivering now, although with cold or arousal, House couldn't tell. His own arousal was pitched, although he didn't want to stop to think why – why was he so painfully aroused by her prone body, marked now by his teeth?

"Aren't you going to show me your face?" He nipped more gently along the line of her shoulder to the crease of her neck.

"No." She clenched her arm more tightly around her head and rubbed her cheek against the carpet as if trying to bury her head deeper there.

He managed to nudge her arm just enough to reveal her ear, and he bit her earlobe until she gasped, releasing it and running his tongue around it. "Do you like what I'm doing to you?" he asked, deliberately making sure he was so close to her ear his lips touched her as he spoke.

"No." She was breathless.

A shiver went down House's spine. Why he found her helplessness so arousing he couldn't have said. A drop of fluid trickled down his cock and he winced at the torturous pleasure.

He moved over her, throwing a leg over her hips, bracketing her body with his arms. Again, he leaned down so his mouth touched her ear. "I'm going to keep doing it."

She gasped quietly. "No."

The blood pounded in his body, his cock tented his pajamas as if it intended to leap out of them itself.

_This is a dangerous game, House_, a warning voice in his head cautioned, sounding ominously like Wilson.

"You can't stop me," he growled, as much to Sarah as to his inner voice. He reached for her panties and began to drag them down her body.

"No," she repeated, twisting her body closer to the floor even as she lifted her hips to help him remove her underpants.

House sat up on his knees in order to pull the lace off her body. He shifted around, toeing off his sneakers, shrugging off his dressing gown and dragging his own pajama pants down, throwing them onto the floor beside them. He grabbed for a pillow from a stack piled artfully in one corner of the sofa, managing to snare a pale blue satin one. He roughly pushed it under Sarah's belly, raising her hips, ignoring her sharply indrawn breath that sounded like a gasp of pain.

He didn't waste any further time. Shoving her legs apart, he scrambled between them until he was poised at her hot, undeniably _wet_ entrance.

_Wouldn't stand up in court,_ the pesky voice pointed out.

"No," Sarah said faintly, pushing her pelvis back so he began to sink inside her. She whimpered at the contact.

House was suddenly angry. The extra thrill he was feeling was because he was controlling her. Except he wasn't. If this was a game, it was _her_ game. She'd set the playing field and was laying out the rules. What did that mean? And why did he care? There'd already been way more thinking involved than House usually enjoyed when he was screwing.

She wanted to be dominated? Fine. He'd give her dominated.

He pulled back, retreating from her body until he was no longer touching her.

"No." This time her voice was stronger and she reached a hand around her back, blindly trying to find him, to push him into her. House grabbed the hand before it found its target and stretched it out in front of her. He gripped her wrist and held it to the floor. With his other hand he tunneled his fingers through her elegantly arranged hair, loosening it until he could grasp a handful, pushing her head into the floor.

"Don't forget who's the one in control here," he murmured.

Sarah made a soft noise that wasn't quite a protest and a shudder went through her.

It wasn't easy keeping his balance, but he moved his hips up and down, stroking his cock through her wet slit, down to her hard little clit and back, hearing her breath catch, a sound of need rumble deep in the back of her throat.

Eventually he got what he wanted.

"Please," she gasped.

"That's better."

He wasn't gentle. He shoved inside her in one thick, hot slide.

She arched her back and her head pushed up into his hand as she cried out, a guttural noise that shot straight to his balls and had his hips pumping faster and faster.

He'd only managed a minute or so of in-and-out strokes before she sobbed loudly and her body clenched around him. It was too much, his control snapped, his vision going black before he screwed his eyes closed. He shuddered as he climaxed, yelling something inarticulate to the air, buried deep, the contractions of her body milking him of everything he had.

He collapsed on top of her, his body pressing hers to the floor, one hand still grasping her wrist so she couldn't move, the other still tangled in her hair. They shivered through their aftershocks together – the physical ones at least. The emotional and intellectual ones House wasn't ready to consider yet.

After his breath had begun to return, he rolled off her, wincing as his too-sensitive penis left her body and trailed over her skin. He lay on his back on the carpet and turned his head to look at her. Her arm was still thrown over her face, but he could see the dark marks of makeup smudges down her cheeks and the red flush of orgasm that mottled her neck and shoulders. It took him a few moments to untangle his hand from her hair and it came away with several strands hanging through his fingers.

_It wasn't rape if she came, was it? _

"Sarah." His voice sounded louder than he'd intended.

She sucked in a breath. Her arm shifted, revealing blinking, blood-shot, red-rimmed eyes. The tears had washed away the gold flecks in her hazel irises and turned them a dark, mossy green. Her throat worked as she swallowed. "Thank you," she whispered.

It took a moment for him to process the words and what they meant. "I'm not doing this again," he said, slightly surprised by the words even as he said them. His cock twitched as if to remind him of the overwhelming power of the orgasm he'd just experienced. It wasn't happy about the whole "not doing this again" idea.

But what they'd done was wrong. Just like the last time had been wrong. _Wasn't it? _

Sarah's cheek rubbed against the carpet as she nodded. "I understand." Her voice was hoarse from crying.

She reached out a hand and rested it on his chest, lightly rubbing the t-shirt he still wore. One side of her mouth quirked up in a smile. House swallowed hard at how relieved he was to see it.

She pinched his t-shirt between thumb and forefinger, lifting the fabric slightly before letting it drop again. "Although I would have liked to have seen you completely naked just once."

_Ditto_. "And I would have liked to have seen you ride me cowgirl style in that hot red lace."

"Mmm. Pity we can't do it again, then."

"Yeah." He turned his head to look up at the ceiling.

They lay silently for a while, the only movement when Sarah slowly shifted the pillow out from underneath her belly and turned to lay on her back. Her breath caught on a groan as she repositioned herself and she sucked in a couple of sharp pants. House figured she must have jarred her ankle.

They were quiet again. House wondered what would happen next.

"A safe word," she said out of the silence.

"Huh?"

"A safe word. If either of us says it, that means _stop_."

House frowned. "I know what a safe word is."

She paused. "Just so you know, if we had one, I wouldn't have used it tonight."

"I know." But he was still glad to hear her say it.

"I know you know. That's why we could do it."

House didn't say anything. He was still uneasy about the whole experience – satisfying as it had been.

"If we have a safe word, maybe we _could_ do this again," Sarah said. Her tone was light but there was something carefully guarded about it.

"I'm not sure if I want to do this again," House said honestly. "The tears aren't much of a turn-on."

"Oh. Yeah. Well, not those."

"What were they about anyway?"

She fell silent for a while. Long enough that House didn't think she would answer, until, haltingly, she said, "I had a fight with my sister."

"Seriously? Like a cat fight? Is that how you hurt your ankle?"

"Sort of."

"Was there hair-pulling? Face scratching?"

"Not exactly."

"Doesn't sound like much of a cat fight."

She pursed her lips in thought. "It was an emotional cat fight."

"Ah. That sounds boring."

"Yeah. It was."

They lay silent again for a while. House wondered what time it was. He yawned, the chemicals from sex beginning to do their work in his body.

He sat up and found his pajamas, pulling them on before reaching for his shoes and robe.

Sarah lay there, watching. Her hair was a mess – thanks to his handiwork – and her face was still marked with mascara-black tear tracks. But House felt a stirring – of something other than his dick. He gave her a tentative smile – she returned it, just as tentatively.

"I suppose we should go on a date," he said eventually.

She shrugged one shoulder. "We could do that."

"What are you doing tomorrow night?"

"I'm free."

"Okay, I'll pick you up. Seven-thirty okay?"

"Sure."

House walked to the door and opened it before turning back. She still lay on the floor clad only in her bra, parts of her skin still visibly red from his vicious lovemaking. The only concession she made to his departure was tucking her arm under her head to raise it slightly so she could meet his eyes.

"G'night," he said. He still wasn't sure what to make of what had just happened. Still didn't know whether he should be ashamed of it, or just go with the fact that she seemed to be okay with it all.

"Good night, Greg."

He closed the door and headed back downstairs, already working on plans for their date tomorrow night.

It never occurred to him that she'd stayed lying on the floor like that because she couldn't get up.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Thanks for your comments on the last chapter. Some people were okay with it, others weren't. Clearly I *should* have put in a warning, so I'm sorry about that. As for the content itself, all I can say is that I'm writing the story the way I think the story should go. If it isn't to your taste, then I will be sad to lose you as a reader, but I do understand. That said, this chapter is pretty much all "nice". It's a short chapter, but I'll post again soon.

* * *

It took until Sarah returned from a trip to the bathroom after their appetizers for him to notice.

She'd deliberately worn flat Mary Janes with her fifties-style navy-and-white dress, and before he'd arrived to collect her she'd spent twenty minutes exercising to loosen up her spasming back muscles. But a half-hour sitting in an uncomfortable restaurant chair had undone all her good work, and she knew it was clear from the way she walked that something was wrong. Not to mention the little muffled groan she didn't quite manage to stifle as she sat down.

"Is your ankle that bad?" Greg asked.

"No, it's fine really." Her ankle was barely a twinge in comparison to the gnawing ache in her back, radiating down her thigh, making her feel like her femur was on fire.

"Then what have you done to yourself?" he asked, putting his wine glass down on the table. "Did you—" He broke off and a faint look of horror crossed his face. He leaned closer, dropping his voice. "Did _I_ do something? Last night?"

She shook her head and took a long sip of her red wine, hoping it would quickly mingle with the painkillers she'd swallowed in the bathroom and bring her some measure of peace.

She shifted in her chair, trying – and failing – to find a comfortable position. "Last night didn't help, but it wasn't the cause."

He studied her intently. "It's your lower back, right?"

He knew that just from the way she sat down? Only her osteopath was as good at seeing what hurt just from looking at her.

"Yeah. I fractured my spine and had 360-degree fusion on two lumbar vertebra."

Greg rubbed a hand across his mouth thoughtfully, making a soft scraping noise against his beard. "So shoving a pillow under your hips last night so I could get at your hoo hoo probably wasn't a great idea."

The waiter who'd just arrived at their table looked quite startled, but covered his expression quickly. "Your chicken, madam. And the steak for you, sir. Bon appétit." He disappeared fast. Probably so he could run to tell his colleagues in the kitchen what he'd just overheard, Sarah figured. She wanted to be embarrassed, but she hurt too much to be bothered.

"It didn't help," she said eventually. She leaned over the table and whispered, "Maybe next time just bend me over a table or make it proper doggie style. If I was on my hands and knees I'd be okay."

He seemed gratified by her explicit talk. He picked up his knife and fork and dug into his steak. "Proper doggie style it is," he announced loudly, nodding to himself.

A few other diners turned to look – exactly the response he wanted, she knew. She pretended nothing had happened and took a few bites of her chicken.

"You should have said something," he said a moment later in reproach. "I didn't know. So how did you hurt it?" he asked.

_Damn._ She thought she'd distracted him from that. There was no real way to talk about it without sounding like a whiner. Or worse, having it turn into a pity party. "I was injured at work," she said, waving her fork in the air as if that would fill in the gaps.

"How? Lifting?"

It was a reasonable guess. Nurses often suffered lower back injuries moving patients around. It was for exactly that reason that her back had been in a delicate condition before it had been broken, why the injury had become more serious than it otherwise might have been. "Sort of," she hedged.

He shoved another forkful of steak into his mouth and then spoke around it. "I'm not playing twenty questions with you. Just tell me."

Sarah closed her eyes for a brief moment, and immediately a mental image flashed up in her mind's eye of that day – of the fear and the pain. She opened them again hurriedly.

"A patient I was caring for had a psychotic break. He got violent. He threw me down some stairs and I landed badly."

Greg stopped chewing for a moment and studied her closely. He swallowed. "And then what?" he asked.

Sarah wasn't sure whether to feel miffed or relieved by the lack of sympathy. "And then he beat me up a little. It wasn't his fault. He didn't know what he was doing." Sarah wasn't angry at Nathan. The poor kid had smoked so much dope by the time he was eighteen he'd precipitated a complete paranoid schizophrenic break that had him thinking that the walls were talking and the FBI was after him. She'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"And then I got screwed by my employer, basically." She tried hard to keep the bitterness from her voice. "I used to own a small but decent house, a good car, have a nice life. Then I had to use all my savings to pay for my treatment – surgery, rehabilitation. Thus I now rent the apartment above you and work in administration."

He raised his eyebrows. "Sucks."

"Yeah."

"How long were you paralyzed for?"

She didn't bother asking how he knew. "Only a couple of weeks. But it was scary, waiting to see if my spine would heal. Even though my back is better – mostly – I don't think I'll ever forget that fear, that feeling of helplessness."

"I know what you mean," he said quietly.

He said it lightly and looked back down at his steak, sawing off another huge bite with deliberate concentration. She realized, then, that he_ really knew_. He _really_ understood what it was like to wonder if you were going to permanently lose the use of your legs. Well, in his case, one leg. She realised she still hadn't seen his scar.

"Thank you," she said, meaning it genuinely. His quiet solidarity was a million times more reassuring than the tearful sympathy she'd garnered from other people. It was entire galaxies away from the sheaf of flowers Charlie had sent her from her filmset in Morocco. Just a fraction of Charlie's pay check from that stupid sci fi flick would have provided Sarah with the best rehab available – and perhaps saved her house – but Charlie had sent _flowers_ instead. And of course Sarah couldn't ask – would never ask. Wouldn't have even told her sister about the accident if she hadn't been advised by a well-meaning boss who'd sought out Sarah's "next of kin" information as the stretcher had rattled its way down to the ER.

"For what?" he said, looking a little surprised.

"Just . . . thanks."

He shrugged but seemed to accept it. "So now what do you administrate?"

"A respite centre. People who care for intellectually disabled or mentally ill family members can book them in for short stays when they need a break. It's partly government funded, but our patients are mostly wealthy people who can afford the help."

Just the day before she'd admitted a gorgeous teenage girl with Down's Syndrome whose parents were going on a European cruise. She understood the parents' need for a break and held no animosity for them in taking the opportunity, but her heart ached for the broken-hearted girl who couldn't understand why her mommy and daddy were leaving her.

She'd moved into administration to get away from the constant emotional drain that had been her career to date. It hadn't worked. She'd just found a way to get sucked in differently.

"Do you want dessert?" Greg asked.

Sarah looked down at his empty plate with surprise. She'd only managed to eat about half of her own meal, but she was done. "This was delicious, but I don't think I can eat anymore. You go ahead, though, if you want."

"Nah, my steak wasn't great."

"Oh? You seemed to enjoy it."

He shrugged. "It was steak."

They finished up the bottle of wine they'd ordered, then had a small debate about who was paying. Sarah usually felt she needed to offer to go dutch, but secretly always preferred it when the guy paid. Especially when the guy had picked one of the more expensive restaurants in Princeton.

Greg paid. He also organized for the restaurant to call them a cab home.

"Oh, it's getting chilly!" Sarah gasped as the icy wind caught them as they got out at Baker Street. Both limping, they hurried into the foyer and closed the door.

"Winter's coming, I guess," Greg said.

"Yeah."

An awkward silence fell.

_Now what? _

Greg shuffled his feet and switched his cane from one hand to the other, looking uncomfortable.

Sarah started giggling nervously as a strange idea struck her. "I don't usually sleep with guys on the first date."

His face broke out into a small, genuine smile. "Yeah." He held out a hand to her and she took it, surprised at its warmth. "We kinda did things the wrong way round."

"We did." She stepped closer to him, clasping his hand tighter, looking up into his face. He was taller than her; in her flat shoes it felt like a lot taller. Tonight his eyes were warm, a Mediterranean blue, and deep as the ocean. She could lose herself inside them.

She closed her eyes, waiting for him to kiss her, and then he did: the softest, sweetest, gentlest kiss she'd ever had. His lips nibbled at hers, teasing, lightly brushing his mouth against hers. Sarah literally felt her knees go weak.

When he pulled away she didn't move for a second, stunned into stillness. When she finally did manage to blink open her eyes she found him looking at her with a pleased expression, perhaps proud of his ability to kiss her into a daze.

"Good night, Sarah."

"Good night," she answered, before she realized what it meant.

He turned and opened his door, closing it behind him without another look back.

"Ummm."

_Wait?_

It was too late.

Sarah wasn't sure whether to feel frustrated, charmed or disappointed.

Or did this mean that their date hadn't gone well? Was he okay with schtuping her, but her company had failed to ignite his interest?

She made her way slowly up the stairs and into her apartment. She took her time undressing, getting ready for bed.

Finally she decided it had been a _good_ date. And his kiss had actually been promising. If he hadn't liked her, he wouldn't have kissed her. Perhaps all he was trying to do was hit the "restart" button on their relationship – go back to the part where most couples started – with a date and a kiss goodnight instead of dirty dom/sub sex on the floor.

Oh, but the sex was good. She lay in bed thinking about it, feeling her body respond just to the mere memory, even though she didn't want to examine too deeply exactly why it had turned her on so much.

It had hurt.

Not him – not his penetration – but her back. When he'd arched her back the way he had she could have screamed. Then he'd forced her hand to the ground; his fingers had pulled hard on her hair. And she'd come with enough force to almost black out. It was good pain. Physical, understandable, manageable pain. A much better pain than the agony of the emotional ghosts that had been torturing her until his arrival.

The quiet of the night was broken by a noise. A creaking sound. The bed in the apartment beneath her creaked again, like someone was bouncing on it. Then it stopped.

She smiled. And got up from the bed, went to the bathroom, peed and flushed.

After the sound of the plumbing had abated, the bed creaked again, once.

Sarah laughed and curled up to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **If any of you who really didn't like Chapter 7 are still reading, you probably don't want to read the second half of this chapter. More explicit, non-romantic, non-typical fan fic sex, but not really non-con. After everyone's feedback I did think about changing this - diluting it - but then decided that would be dishonest to the story I'm trying to tell. There is a reason, a point to what's going on between them, I'm not just doing it for some twisted kicks. :)

Also, I don't want to get into a commentary on ships, but given the plot of this story, I can't avoid including some Cuddy. As we sail through my AU version of Season 7, House is dealing with the fallout of several things, one of which is losing Cuddy to Lucas (or, the way I like to think of it, the "idea" he had of Cuddy). But I don't want to get into an attack on "Huddy", despite how this chapter might appear. Okay, that's enough from me. I'll shut up now. Except to say - thanks so much for your reviews.

* * *

**Sunday**

House examined his naked reflection in the mirror. His shoulder was nearly healed. There was a small scab left that he could pick, tear off, keep the wound going, but it wouldn't do much but bleed a little and scab over again.

He'd had an anonymous clinic doctor write him a script for antibiotics. Sarah had been right – it had been infected to the point that medication was required.

Memories of the day his shoulder had been injured swam to the surface. The choking dust. The smell of gasoline, and damp, and fear. The almost overwhelming claustrophobia.

He swallowed hard as he pictured Hanna's face as she'd lain in the ambulance after they'd got her out, that look of pleading as the fat embolism had done its work. House had worked so hard to save her. _You got me through so far_, her face seemed to say, _why aren't you doing something?_ That look of betrayal as she realized. And then, she was gone.

None of his patients since then had penetrated his consciousness the way she had. He treated them – a diagnostic puzzle was still a diagnostic puzzle after all – but something inside him was different. He no longer cared whether he saved them or not.

His team had begun to notice. Not necessarily that he no longer cared – he'd worked hard to keep up a pretense of not caring for a long time. But they'd noticed his temper now had an even finer hair-trigger than it had ever had before. And they'd noticed that he no longer went the extra mile, no longer had quite the same passion for debating treatments, didn't bother with researching unproven new treatments or pouring for hours over patient histories to find a clue.

House was still a good doctor. One of the best. But he was no longer great.

His hand raised to his shoulder, fingernail poised to rip off the scab.

Then his hand fell to his side. What was the use?

Hanna was gone. She'd taken his mojo with her.

The author he'd been treating the previous week had been cured, but that had been a relatively simple case. She'd been pretty shattered when he'd told her about her son – that he hadn't really died from a brain aneurysm – and he didn't think he'd be scoring any dedications in her next book. She'd keep that crappy ending just to spite him.

The girl with schizophrenia was just plain boring. Diagnosis? Liar, liar, pants on fire. _'Cause that had never happened before. _

He shrugged, noticing that it didn't hurt his shoulder even vaguely.

Currently he was dealing with a sick baby and he didn't yet know what was happening with her. Strangely he usually found babies pretty motivating. He'd never wanted any kids of his own, but that didn't mean he wasn't prone to the innate human urge to protect offspring. Eventually the solution would come to him. Hopefully before anyone died. _Again_.

A knock at the door startled him out of his reflections.

Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it around his waist and headed for the door.

He knew who it would be. And if it wasn't her, it'd be Wilson and he wouldn't care about the towel. He'd likely be grateful that House had at least covered the essentials.

It wasn't Wilson.

"Hi! I . . ." Sarah started brightly but trailed off as her eyes took in his naked chest, the towel and his legs.

_It was a good thing if he'd made her speechless, right? _

"Your shoulder looks better," she said when her eyes eventually returned to his face. Her cheeks were pink.

"Yeah, it's better."

"Well, I . . ." She seemed to be struggling to speak.

"Is my naked form that affecting?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She grinned. "If you answered the door completely naked, I'm sure I'd be speechless."

"Wait, I can . . ." He reached for the towel.

"No!" Sarah grabbed his hands before he could remove it, frantically looking around the empty foyer.

He laughed.

"Keep it for my eyes only," she said, folding his hands carefully over the knot in the towel where it hung from his hips.

"And there was a reason for your knock other than to ogle me?"

"Oh, I'm just going to the grocery store. I wondered if there was anything you needed. And I . . ." She hesitated. "I wanted to tell you that I had a nice time last night."

"Me too," House said, genuinely meaning it.

She smiled, looking partly pleased and partly relieved. "And also it's Sunday – I wondered if you might want to do—"

"—movie night?" House finished for her. "Sure, why not. It's here tonight, isn't it?"

"Yep. Shall I get something at the store to cook for us? I can't keep eating pizza – it's too fattening."

House was reluctant to experience more of Sarah's culinary adventures. "I'll cook something," he said quickly.

She looked surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Okay. Well, that'd be nice. I'll see you round seven. I've got a great movie for us to watch."

"Sounds good."

They held eye contact just a little longer than necessary before she gave him a shy grin and turned away, winding her scarf around her neck as she headed outside. The icy breeze that blew in as she left flew straight up House's towel and sent him scurrying back inside in search of clothes.

He'd just searched his refrigerator for ingredients when his cell phone rang.

His team.

His patient was dying. _Again_.

House hung up and said every swear word he knew, then invented a few more for good measure. He gave serious thought to blowing them off. It was about time his team learned to cope without him. It was about time he stopped putting every single thing in his life second to work. Especially now that work wasn't giving him the jonesing it usually did.

He realized he didn't have Sarah's phone number. He'd never needed it.

Scrawling a quick message on a piece of paper, he limped upstairs to shove it under her door, then headed for the hospital. His leg was killing him.

* * *

"House! Where do you think you're going?"

He'd known his run for freedom had been going too well to last.

House closed his eyes briefly before turning to face the vicious dark-haired harridan that was click-clacking her way down to the corridor towards him. The light glinted from the diamond on her left hand. Was it his imagination, or did she do that deliberately? Every time he saw her it seemed like she must have angled her hand to the nearest bulb in order to send a laser-like beam of light directly into his eyes.

The light was a message: _I'm not yours and I never was. _

"You aren't leaving."

He shook his head. "Guess again."

"You are not leaving this hospital until that baby is completely recovered."

He should have predicted this. She always went a little nuts when he was treating kids. He decided to start with logic.

"We just did a blood transfusion. The kid is doing better."

"I don't care." She walked right up to him until she invaded his personal space. She always did that. Mixed signals. "You are going back to your office and sitting there until you work out what is going wrong." She pointed the way, in case he didn't know it.

He was so bored with this bitching – especially now that he knew it wasn't leading to anything involving her thighs around his waist. "I can do that anywhere," he said tiredly. He just didn't have the energy for his usual snark.

She hitched her purse higher on her shoulder. "Yeah, but here I can have people watch you and make sure you do your job."

House frowned as he realized she was wearing her coat. "I can't leave, but you can?"

She looked even more irritated – if that were possible. "My nanny has to take her daughter to a recital and I don't have anyone to babysit Rachel. I'm supposed to be in a board meeting."

"Parenthood is a bitch."

She looked like she might slap him.

He kind of hoped she would.

"I'm serious, House."

"As cancer."

She narrowed her eyes, not sure what to make of his jape. She shook her hair back over her shoulders. "I'll expect an update in the morning."

With that, she turned on her four-inch heels and walked to the door.

"Say 'hi' to Lucas from me!" House called out as she disappeared into the frosty night. He knew from the hunch of her shoulders that she heard him.

House counted to ten to give her a head start, then followed her out the doors.

* * *

Sarah was curled up on the sofa, almost asleep in front of some boring telemovie, when the knock at the door came. It was soft, almost hesitant, and for a moment she wondered if she'd imagined it.

"I thought you had a patient?" she asked, when opening the door revealed exactly who she'd been hoping for.

"She's doing better."

"That's good. You want to come in?"

He hesitated. His eyes skimmed her body, and she wondered what he was thinking.

"I want . . ." he hesitated.

A thrill shivered down her spine as she realized exactly what he was thinking. "Yes." She nodded. "But three conditions." She held up her fingers and counted them out. "One, a bed. Two, a position that won't hurt my back. Three, we get naked."

"Good with me."

Sarah closed the door behind him and followed him as he walked up the corridor to her bedroom. He'd obviously come straight up to her apartment from the hospital; he shrugged the backpack that he carried on one shoulder down to the floor, closely followed by a navy pea coat.

He was wearing dark indigo jeans, garish orange sneakers, a rumpled pink shirt and a black blazer. It shouldn't have worked, but it did.

He didn't waste any time. He stripped as she watched, methodically and dispassionately, taking off of each item of clothing and adding it to the pile on the floor. Once he was down to black boxer-style briefs, he nodded at her. "What about you?"

Sarah slipped her feet out of her lambskin slippers, pausing as she reached for the button of her jeans. It would take only a moment to pull her sweater over her head and shove her jeans down her legs. That was all she had on, apart from underwear, and that didn't even match – she hadn't expected to see him. Plain black cotton panties and a cream lace bra.

Except. This ordinary, routine lead-up was doing nothing for her. Not even a fraction of the sparks she'd felt the last few times.

She mentally shrugged. Maybe she'd warm up as things went along.

Sarah took off her jeans and pulled her sweater over her head while he sat on the bed to watch. Sitting down bared his legs to her and she finally got to see his scar. It wasn't the worst she'd ever seen, but it was clear evidence of the pain he experienced.

"Not pretty, is it?" he asked, his hand going to his thigh on reflex.

She shrugged. There was no point lying or sugar-coating, she knew that much. "It's healed badly. You could probably have plastic surgery to reduce the appearance of the scar itself, but it won't do anything for the pain."

"That's about the size of it."

"So there's not much point."

"No."

She sat down next to him, reached behind her back and undid her bra. His eyes immediately tracked to her bared breasts and she saw them flare with what she chose to interpret as appreciation.

But nothing in his briefs seemed to so much as twitch.

"You have small nipples." A finger reached up to trace his words. "But they're pretty breasts. Still quite firm."

_Damned by faint praise. _Sarah didn't know what to say. "Thank you" seemed a little too pathetic.

Both his hands raised and gently caressed her, fingers stroking her apparently small nipples, feeling the weight of her in his palms.

What had happened to the bold, aggressive lover that turned her on so incredibly? Was she so twisted that now she couldn't get aroused unless her sex came with a side-serving of violence and emotional upheaval?

His fingers moved, stroking her, reaching almost into her armpit before circling around the lower curve, pressing gently.

His eyes raised to her face and his hands stilled. "What?"

She tried for a rueful smile. "Sorry. It's just . . . I feel like you're giving me a breast exam."

One side of his mouth cocked up in a weak grin. "Yeah. I guess I kind of was."

"Find anything?" she joked.

"Perfectly healthy."

"Well that's a relief."

His hands fell away. "This isn't working, is it?"

"Not really."

"Sorry."

"It's not your fault." _Who's fault was it?_ Was she just not attractive enough to arouse him? Or was he some kind of freak who only got hard when his patients died or she was a shattered wreck? "Want a drink?" Sarah offered.

"Yeah, that'd be good."

She expected he would get up and dress and follow her back out to the living room, but instead he plumped up the pillows against the headboard and pulled back the quilt, slipping into bed.

Sarah grabbed a silk robe before heading to the kitchen and pouring them both large glasses of red wine.

"Here you go."

She carefully climbed into bed beside him, both of them leaning back against the headboard, sipping silently from their wine.

"What's wrong with your patient?" she asked, trying to make conversation.

"I have no idea. We keep giving her maternal blood transfusions and that works, but we have no clue why."

"Your patient is a baby?"

"Yeah. Newborn."

"Tricky."

"For lots of reasons."

"Such as?"

He didn't answer.

The silence dragged on for a while so Sarah reached for the remote and turned on the ancient TV she had in one corner of the bedroom.

It seemed to be the right move, because Greg lifted the wine glass from her hand, put both down on the nightstand next to him, and then pulled her in close. She twisted onto her side so she could rest her head on his shoulder.

A lump formed in her throat. When was the last time she'd just lain with someone like this? Just to touch and be touched? Too long. Crying would be ridiculous, so she held it in, focusing instead on the warmth of his body against hers, the occasional stroke of his finger on her arm, the rise and fall of his chest. Her hand rested flat on his belly.

* * *

-

Sarah woke with a start when a cell phone rang. She was still struggling to work out what was going on when there was a crash and the sound of breaking glass before a bedside lamp went on. A moment later, a gruff male voice snapped, "House".

Sarah blinked. She sat up and realized the crashing sound was her two wine glasses shattering as they hit the side of the bed on their way to the floor. Luckily it appeared they were both empty, saving her carpet from a red wine stain.

The man in bed next to her was lying back on the pillows, one hand rubbing his eyes while the other held his cell phone to his ear. There was a pause before he swore under his breath.

"Crap! Check the mom," he said. "Well of course you are." He paused. "No. What's the point?" Another pause. "I don't care what she said. Call me when you know more." He flipped the phone shut and arched his neck to look over the side of the bed, turning back to her with a grimace. "Sorry about the glasses."

"It's okay, they were cheap. Easy to replace."

"That was my team. The baby has cancer."

Her sleepy brain struggled to comprehend. "A newborn with cancer?"

"Melanoma."

"I've never heard of that before."

"No."

Sarah didn't remember falling asleep, but she was still only wearing her robe – it had come undone and was tangled uncomfortably around her. She shrugged it off without thinking, pulling the quilt more snugly around her against the chill in the night air, and settled back on her pillow, closing her eyes.

"What's the time?" she asked, yawning.

"Eleven thirty."

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. His cell phone rested against his chin, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Is that all?" she asked. "I feel like I've been asleep for hours."

He shook his head, but still had a faraway look on his face. "No, I only turned the TV off half an hour ago."

"Do you have to go?"

His eyes focused and he looked at her. "Have to? No. My presence has been requested, but screw her, quite frankly."

"Huh?"

He didn't answer.

The deep sleep Sarah had been enjoying until the phone call interrupted beckoned to her. Best sleep she'd had in months. She snuggled back into the pillow and closed her eyes.

She was almost asleep again when she felt the tickle of a beard against her throat. He nibbled the skin under her ear, sending a wave of goosebumps over her flesh.

His hand wandered over her skin, squeezing a nipple, stroking her belly, delving inside her panties.

She groaned and shifted her hips, giving him access. Sleep was good. But this? This was better.

A moment later her panties were off, his lips were nibbling the valley between her breasts and two fingers were parting her, stroking her, teasing her entrance.

"Is this working?" he murmured against her skin.

His fingers skimmed her clit, and she gasped. "Don't stop."

"I'll take that as a yes."

He seemed to have remembered what she liked from their time on the sofa. He wasn't gentle with her breasts, using his teeth, rubbing his beard roughly against her delicate skin. Below, his fingers plunged inside her while his thumb kept up the pressure on her bud.

Sarah's climax built and built. She almost didn't want the orgasm to arrive, the delicious torture, the exquisite anticipation was too good. Her hands fisted the sheets beneath her. "Oh God, yes, just like that," she whispered, her breath catching as the sensations threatened to overwhelm her.

"You're gonna come?" he asked, his voice a rough caress all of its own.

"Yes, yes."

He stopped touching her, his fingers going still inside her.

"No!" Her eyes flew open in protest, looking down at the smirking face poised over her breasts. "Why did you stop?"

"For fun."

"Who's fun? Not mine."

"No, mine."

"Keep going."

He shifted, leaning back on one elbow, his hand still buried deeply between her thighs. She clenched them to keep him there.

His eyes glinted in the dim light, with amusement and something else. Something darker. "Not until you ask properly."

For a moment she didn't understand. "Please," she said instantly. He'd taken her to the point where dignity was of a lower concern than reaching her peak.

"Good start, but not what I meant."

She frowned. "I don't understand."

"Beg me."

Something flipped in Sarah's stomach at the same time as the muscles in her vagina clenched involuntarily. He laughed darkly. "Don't even try to deny that turned you on."

He was right, it did. Didn't mean it also didn't make her feel completely unsettled. "I . . ." She didn't know what to say.

"You know you love it. You love it when I make you submit to me."

He moved his fingers inside her, a reminder that he was there, and a shudder went through her. She closed her eyes, pushing away any thoughts but the feel of him touching her.

"Greg, please touch me," she said. Her voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the sincerity. It surprised even her. "Please make me come. I need you to touch me."

He complied, resuming his overwhelming domination of her body. "Call me 'master'," he muttered against her breast, before twisting her nipple with his teeth.

Sarah didn't care. "Master, please."

He paused for a moment. "No, I changed my mind, 'master' is stupid. Call me . . . call me 'House'."

"House," she gasped. It took only a minute before she was back at the brink of climax and she found herself chanting "don't stop, don't stop". Half of her wondered if he might deny her again – this time completely – as a punishment of some kind, and that only enhanced her pleasure.

"Ah!" She cried out as the waves of pleasure crashed over her, wiping her mind, freezing her breath, blacking out her vision. He kept up the pressure, kept savaging her nipple with his teeth, and the peak drew out, almost too long, almost to the point that she wondered if she might die from the experience.

"No more," she managed to gasp. "No, please."

He took pity on her and slowed his caresses, slipping his fingers from her to rest on her mound, raising his head to place a sweet, gentle kiss on her lips.

"Another," she said. Meaning kiss, not orgasm. She wasn't sure if she'd survive another one of those.

He kissed her again before curling on his side beside her. His erection prodded against her hip.

It took a minute before Sarah could breathe properly again. She felt like explaining herself, justifying why being treated that way seemed to enhance her excitement. The only problem was she didn't know. She didn't even know where to begin in trying to understand it for herself, let alone explain it to someone else.

Once her breath had returned, she twisted on her side to face him, her hand tracing his body until it rested on his hip, teasingly just inches from where she longed to touch him. "Greg? What would you like?" she asked, more than ready to return the favor.

He searched her eyes. "Honestly?"

"Sure."

"Your mouth."

"Okay." In giving him the choice, she figured there was a good chance he'd say that, and had already been working on the logistics – most importantly a position that wouldn't strain her back. "Do you mind sitting up? I can kneel—"

He didn't even give her time to finish, throwing back the quilt and shifting around.

She chuckled. "Eager much?"

He dropped his voice dramatically. "Hurry up." He flashed her a quick grin to show he was joking. Mostly.

He clambered over her to her side of the bed, dropping a quick kiss on her nose as he went past.

"Why didn't you just—"

"I might be a mean sonofabitch," he said as he positioned himself on the edge of the bed, "but even I wouldn't make a woman kneel on broken glass to give me a blow job."

"Oh yeah." She'd forgotten about that.

Sarah tossed a pillow to the floor for her knees and after a quickly finding the right position, she was taking him in. He groaned and his head fell back.

Then his cell phone rang again.

Sarah paused, looking up at him, his cock still in her mouth. He grimaced and reached for the phone, so Sarah began to pull back, figuring things would halt while he talked. She was wrong. While he grabbed the phone with one hand, the other clamped in her hair and held in her place.

She shrugged, kind of amused. It would be a challenge to see if she could make him lose his concentration, but then she remembered the call was probably about a dying baby and her enthusiasm waned.

"House."

Sarah could hear the angry female voice coming from the tinny cell phone speaker. Greg held the phone away from his ear, wincing at the noise.

"It's my boss," he mouthed to Sarah. "She's pissed." He grinned.

Well it wasn't a diagnostic call at least, she thought. His grin was naughty – childishly mischievous – and she decided to be complicit in this little prank against his boss. Hopefully the call would be short. She returned to the task in front of her.

"Yes, I'm listening," he said into the phone. Then Greg's hand tightened in her hair, and a low growl from the back of his throat encouraged her to take him deeper.

For the first minute or two he managed to sound almost normal as he said the occasional word to his boss. But then he began moving, holding Sarah so he could move more forcefully, compelling her to take him in, and his breath became choppy.

"Yes," he said breathlessly and Sarah wasn't sure if it was meant for her or the woman on the phone. Sarah felt her arousal begin to build all over again. She'd never really got off on doing this for someone before, but for reasons she couldn't name, this time was different.

He sucked in a gasp. "Is this turning you on, Cuddy?" he said, his voice rough. "Because I have to tell you, it's doing great things for me." He groaned, loudly, and the volume of the woman on the end of the phone increased exponentially at his quip. His hand tightened in Sarah's hair, pulling almost painfully. Blood surged to her groin and she groaned around him.

"Yes," he said again.

His movements became more aggressive. Although he wasn't really hurting her, she began to feel that edge of fear, of panic, like she'd felt on his sofa that first time. This time it was enough to make her try to pull away, but he didn't seem to be paying any attention.

There was more angry tirade from the phone, a stream of indecipherable invective. Every now and then, she could work out a word. "Irresponsible." "Unethical." "Immature." "Careless." And "House".

Sarah felt his body go taught, his climax approaching. He shuddered. She tried to prepare herself.

"I said I'll do it!" he yelled, then flipped the phone shut and threw it across the room. Both of his hands fisted in her hair, pulling hard. Then he was thrusting himself into her throat, and a moment later he came, head thrown back, groaning out to the world, "Oh God, _Lisa!_"


	10. Chapter 10

The woman kneeling at House's feet made a choking noise as he released her, and she scrambled to her feet and ran for the bathroom. The sound of running water was followed by coughing and spitting.

_Christ! _

What had he done? He'd never been that rough with a woman's mouth – not even when he'd paid for the pleasure. And as for what he'd said, the name he'd used . . .

He looked down at his hands. He shook them and strands of blonde hair drifted to the floor.

Sarah appeared in the bedroom holding a washcloth to her face with a shaking hand.

"Don't ever do that again without asking first. Or I'll bite it off." Her voice was low and raspy, probably because she'd just had his cock halfway down her throat. But there was no mistaking the steely tone. In the time they'd spent together, Sarah had always struck him as a bit of a doormat. But right now her eyes flashed and her body was rigid and he realized he was seeing a whole new side to this woman.

He couldn't blame her.

"I'm sorry," he said, throwing up his hands at the futility of apologizing for what he'd done.

She threw the washcloth at him and disappeared back into the bathroom.

House cleaned up and pulled on his underwear, jeans and t-shirt. Now he had to break the news that during the phone call he'd said he'd go back into the hospital. Probably wasn't a bad thing. It wasn't like there was going to be anymore sweet cuddling in bed after that little performance.

"Sarah?"

He limped into the bathroom, wondering what he would find. Tears? Hysteria?

Sarah was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, her chin resting in her hand, staring at the wall blankly.

He crouched down beside her. "Sarah?"

Somehow, this silence was worse. Being screamed at or berated for his selfishness and brutality and tactlessness would have made him feel better.

"Who's Lisa?" she said finally.

He sighed heavily. He shifted, sliding down against the bath to sit on the tiled floor. "My boss," he said after a moment. "Lisa Cuddy."

"The woman on the phone?" Sarah didn't look at him.

"Yes."

"So did you just get confused?" She sounded vaguely hopeful.

He could get out of this, he figured, by simply claiming how Sarah's skillful oral sex had scrambled his brain; how being on the phone with Cuddy had just meant she'd been in his mind at the time. But this time, when deception would make life so much easier, House couldn't bring himself to lie.

"I did get confused, I guess," he said. "But remember I told you about the woman who got engaged to someone else?"

Sarah let out a long breath. "Lisa."

"Yeah."

There was a moment of silence.

"You're in love with your _boss_?" Sarah asked finally, her face screwing up in disbelief.

House no longer knew the answer to that question. He _had_, at one time, been in love with Lisa Cuddy. Or maybe just infatuated. Obsessed. No, it _was_ more than that. _But was it love?_ If it was, it had always been a particularly wretched and lonely kind. Was he still in love with her now? Now that she'd promised herself to another? He had no idea.

"Sarah, I'm sorry. I have to go in to the hospital."

"I figured."

He got to his feet, groaning with the effort. God his leg hurt. It sucked to get old. To get old and worn, and to know that being in pain and hurting other people was an inescapable fact of life.

House leaned over and took Sarah's face in his hands, tilting up her chin. He pressed a gentle kiss to her lips and then another to her forehead.

"I don't want this to . . ." he trailed off.

"Just go," Sarah said, her eyes closing.

House's hands dropped to his sides. She was right. He turned, grabbed his things from the bedroom, and let himself out.

* * *

-

Sarah sat in the bathroom until her toes went numb from the cold. She felt like turning on the gas fireplace and curling up in front of flickering flames for comfort, but the damn thing was broken and the super hadn't yet done anything about it.

She headed back into the bedroom, making a wide berth around the broken glass, and crawled into bed.

Her mind still didn't know what to make of what had happened.

Would she see him again after this?

Any further analysis of the situation was halted by the muffled sound of a ringing phone. Had he accidentally left his behind? A moment later Sarah realized it was _her_ phone and had been knocked to the floor along with the wine glasses when Greg had searched in the unfamiliar darkness for the lamp. She leaned over the bed and reached for it, dreading what the call held. A call at some time after midnight? If it wasn't Greg with more unwanted apologies, it could only be one other person.

The name on the display confirmed Sarah's fears.

"Charlie?" she said, flipping open the phone.

"S-s-a-a-a-a-_rah_." The slur was unmistakable. Loud background noises of shouted conversation and thumping music made Sarah hold the phone away from her ear.

"Where are you, Charlie?"

"LA. La-la-land!" She giggled.

"Where in LA?"

"A club. It's pretty here. They have pretty lights. Pink and red and purple. And soft couches. They're all snuggly."

Sarah's stomach twisted. This wasn't drunk Charlie, it was stoned Charlie. Stoned Charlie was easier to deal with on the phone than drunk Charlie, who tended to get aggressive and hysterical, but neither version was much fun.

"Is Miles there?" Sarah asked hopefully. "Can you put him on the phone?"

"Miles z'not here," Charlie said in a sing-song voice. "I have Matt and Charlie instead. Another Charlie, not me!" She giggled.

"It sounds like it's time for you to go home, Charlie," Sarah said, putting on her stern tone.

"Yeah. I'm going home. But I needed to call you and say sorry."

Sarah looked up at the ceiling, hoping to find the patience she needed there. "What for?"

"You know what for."

"I do?"

"Yes. I'm so-o-o-o sorry, Sarah. And for Mom. Your poor face."

_Oh no, not this_. "Charlie, please go home now. Don't talk about this in front of anyone else, okay?" Who knew who might be hanging around while her sister rehashed the ghosts of the past? Matt and Charlie might be journalists for all she knew.

"Did the cut on your face heal?" Charlie insisted.

"Charlie, that was twenty-five years ago."

"But she hit you so hard with the bottle."

"It's healed, Charlie. You need to go home."

Charlie's breath caught in what sounded like a sob. "You tried, Sez, I know you did. But you didn't try _hard enough_."

Sarah's heart caught on the childhood nickname, and the familiar flash of guilt went through her at Charlie's accusation, making her already churning stomach leap with a wave of nausea. Strangely, this time the guilt was followed by a flare of anger, a bright, white-hot rage. It was too much. Too much on top of what she'd already been through that night.

She gripped the phone tighter. "No Charlie. No more. You can't keep doing this."

"My head feels funny." She giggled again. "Like it's going to fall off."

There was a male voice in the background, then laughter.

"What did you take Charlie?"

"Charlie gave it to me. The _other_ Charlie." She laughed again, as if this was the funniest thing in the world.

"I'm hanging up." Sarah's hands begin to shake. She'd never hung up on Charlie when she'd called like this. Always talked her down, made sure she got home safely, no matter how long it took.

"No, Sez, you can't. You always help."

"Not this time, Charlie."

There was silence on the other end of the phone, punctuated by the loud background noise that only served to emphasize it.

Then a click and the connection was severed.

Sarah blew out a breath and put the phone down next to her. It rattled on the top of the bedside table as her trembling fingers released it.

What had she done?

* * *

-

The baby was going to be fine. The mom, however, was dead. Whether House had been in the hospital or at Sarah's apartment having proper, _normal_, sex with her, wouldn't have made a difference.

House was positive that if Cuddy hadn't interrupted, things with Sarah would have been fine. Nice. Normal. It was what he'd planned for. Not the twisted, torturous couplings they'd managed so far.

It had all been Cuddy's fault. Not his. Mostly.

And as for the patient?

This one _really_ wasn't his fault. It had been the mom's decision to hold off cancer treatment. The clot in her lungs was one of those freak, godawful things that just happened for no reason.

Didn't mean he still wasn't angry as hell about it.

He wished he was brave enough to swallow his pride and go back and see Nolan. thoughts swirled in his head and he needed to let them out. But he was no longer sure who was a safe port for his bitter and twisted ramblings.

He leaned back in his office chair and bounced a ball against the wall above his ancient TV set. When that got boring he surfed the internet for a while. The news was all bad and depressing, an earthquake somewhere, the economy still in the toilet, some drugged-up Hollywood starlet photographed throwing up in the gutter, her mascara tracked down her face in tearful streaks. Not even the rich and famous escaped the pain of life.

It took a while before he could accept something he'd known all along.

There was really only one person he _could_ talk to.

He packed up his things and headed home.

* * *

-

He was sitting on the stairs, chin resting on the handle of his cane, waiting for her when she came in from work. He ankle or her back – or both – were clearly still bothering her; she walked with a slight limp. She went to the mailbox straight away, just like she always did, and didn't notice him until she'd pincered the letters inside from the slot and turned to head up to her apartment. He was effectively blocking the way.

"Hi," she said, warily. She looked tired, a bad day on top of lack of sleep, House hazarded a guess.

"Can we talk?" he said.

Her throat worked as she swallowed. House tried not to let it remind him of the previous night. "Do you really think that's a good idea?" she said eventually.

"No, but I can't think of anything else."

She paused for a moment. "Okay."

"Your place or mine?" He grinned at his own lame line.

She rolled her eyes. "Yours."

He figured she'd say that. She wanted to have the power to leave.

He got up and led the way to his apartment, opening the door and letting her in before him. She was wearing a suit with a knee-length skirt, sensible heels and a coat which she took off and hung on the rack inside his door.

"Do you mind if I take my shoes off?" she asked.

"Go right ahead."

She sighed in relief as she leaned over and slipped them off, going to his sofa and tucking one leg underneath her as she sat down. She massaged her injured ankle with one hand.

"Would you like a drink?" House asked, standing awkwardly, not sure what to do with himself. He was finding it strange that she seemed more comfortable in his apartment than he felt himself. He wondered, not for the first time, how much time she'd spent here while Alvie was in residence.

"No thanks."

"Mind if I have one?"

"Go right ahead."

House poured himself a finger of scotch and then sat down beside her. He twisted into the arm of the sofa so he could face her. Their knees were barely an inch apart, he could feel her warmth radiating from her skin even through his jeans, and she didn't shift away. He took that as a positive sign.

"How was your day?" he asked.

"Not great."

"Figured."

She winced. "Do I look that bad?"

"Just tired."

"What happened?"

She studied him closely for a moment. "Do you really want to know?"

"Sure."

Her eyebrows arched. "Really? 'Cause this whole, 'Hi honey, how was your day' thing is something new for us." There was no bitchiness to her tone, she was simply stating a fact.

He really was dealing with a different woman, House realized. What had happened last night had changed the dynamic between them. House no longer felt as if he held the upper hand; as if she'd do whatever he commanded. He felt a strange sense of loss at the realization.

He reached over and threaded his fingers through hers. "Tell me." He dug deep for a seam of patience inside him. This wasn't what he'd wanted. He wanted someone to listen while _he_ talked. He wanted to blurt out all the terrible and awful things that were weighing down his chest; transfer the burden to someone else.

But he could do this for her. He wanted to. He might not be able to show his affection for her in physical ways unless they bordered on violence, but at least he could listen to her talk about her day.

"Okay," Sarah said eventually. She sighed and looked over his shoulder into the kitchen. "Work was going all right, a couple of new patients to admit, an issue with the caterers, a problem with one of our nurses failing to turn up for his shift. That's all pretty typical. Then . . . I had a fight with my sister."

"Again?"

"Yeah, this was a little different." Her fingers tightened around his. "I'm . . . I tried to get her admitted to rehab."

Okay. _That_ he hadn't been expecting. "She wouldn't go?" he asked.

"No. She's flying out tomorrow for a new film, so she said she couldn't. She also thinks everything is fine, that I'm worried over nothing."

"And are you?"

Her eyes met his. "Did you see any of the tabloids today?"

"Huh?"

"Charlie was on the front cover of just about all of them. I'm sure you saw it – on TV even. Blonde girl, leaning out of a limo, puking up her guts on Hollywood Boulevard."

"Oh yeah, I saw that on the web . . . _Hang on._" He frowned as the pieces fell into place. "_Charlotte Hardiman is your sister? _'Charlie'_ is Charlotte Hardiman?_"

House struggled to process the information. Everyone knew who Charlotte Hardiman was. Model turned actor, she was one of those women who was always being photographed somewhere, doing something. Who she dated or whether she was adopting a baby from Vietnam was a matter of national importance. House recalled a particularly memorable love scene in one movie or another that he might just have used as masturbation material at one point. The thought made him feel slightly nauseated.

"Yes, Charlie is Charlotte," Sarah admitted with a sigh.

"Isn't she kind of squeaky clean, though?" House tried to recall the details from the news report. The grainy photos taken by some eagle-eyed passerby on their cell phone had been explained away by publicists as food poisoning, but it didn't take a doctor to see that there was more to it than a germ-ridden chicken sandwich. Her hitherto 'America's Sweetheart' reputation was what had made it such high profile news.

"If you went by what you saw and read in the media, that's what you would think."

"Ah. The reality's different?"

"The reality's very different."

Sarah looked away again, staring down at their joined hands, looking sad and hurt.

House nudged her chin with a finger to raise her eyes to his. "Hey. You did everything you could."

Tears welled in her eyes. "Then why do I feel so useless?"

"Because she's an addict and this is what addicts do to the people who care about them. Trust me on that."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Thank you all so much for your reviews. Sorry I haven't been able to reply - I've been travelling for work and it's interrupted my usual schedule somewhat. Hope to be back posting more regularly - and letting you know how important your reviews are - soon!

* * *

-

"I . . . guess you're right." Sarah sniffed loudly and blinked rapidly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to cry." She didn't want to start – in case she couldn't stop.

"It's okay. You've had a crappy day, you can cry."

"It's mostly tiredness," she protested. His hand tightened around hers, and that made a tear fall, despite her determination to hold it in.

He leaned forward and wiped her cheek with the back of a finger.

_Tenderness? _

She'd known he was capable of it, even as it came as a surprise. Even though she'd seen little enough of it from him to date. Right now it threatened to be her undoing. She was angry with him – hurt and insulted. He'd not only called out another woman's name last night, but he'd been brutal with her in a way that was new to their already violent sex life. What precisely made last night different was hard to pinpoint, but there _was_ a difference.

It reminded her that from the very first moment she'd set eyes on him she'd known he was a bad choice.

"So what happened?" he asked, his thumb stroking the back of her hand in a way that was equal parts reassuring and arousing. "Do you know what was going on with Charlie last night? What happened when the photo was taken?"

Sarah was instantly suspicious of his eager questions. Would it happen again? When people found out about her famous sister, suddenly Sarah became far more interesting, far more valuable as a friend. Because then they might find out more about the gorgeous Charlotte. Because then, maybe, one day, if they pretended to be a good enough friend, they might even get to meet her.

Sarah sighed. She was sick of second-guessing everyone. "What, so you can sell the story to E! News?"

He didn't even blink. "I was thinking _National Enquirer_. I've already got an inside lead there – they've published three of my letters."

She managed a weak laugh and took an internal leap. She trusted him. "I didn't sleep much last night. After you left, Charlie rang me from some club. She does that – calls me when she's in over her head."

"Or off it," he added.

"Yeah, that too. I . . . I hung up on her."

"Fair enough. Not like there's much you can do when you're in Princeton and she's in Hollywood."

"No, you don't understand. What if Charlie didn't get home okay? What if someone had taken advantage of her? What if she'd taken more drugs and overdosed? What if she'd tried to drive herself home and crashed? It would have been my fault."

House shook his head. "How old is Charlie?"

"Thirty-two."

"Old enough to be responsible for her own actions. How could it be your fault?"

"But . . . you don't understand." For all their lives, Sarah had been protecting Charlie from one thing or another. The hurt of their father's abandonment. The pain and violence of an alcoholic mother. The inappropriate advances of photographers and directors after a New York modeling agency rep had picked Charlie out at a junior high production of _Guys and Dolls_. That had happened just after their mother's death and twenty-one-year-old Sarah had been granted custody of her thirteen-year-old sister. A year later Charlie had been on the cover of _Vogue_.

"Charlie needs me," Sarah continued. "She needs me to protect her."

"From what?"

"From everything."

The only problem was, Sarah had done such a good job of protecting Charlie, Charlie hardly realized what she'd been protected from. As far as Charlie was concerned it was Sarah's fault that their father had walked out – Sarah had told six-year-old Charlie that Dad left because Sarah had been bad at school. Sarah couldn't let her little sister know it was his inability to cope with an alcoholic wife and two demanding daughters – especially when he'd been angry for six years over what he saw as their mother's deliberate second pregnancy to try to save an ailing marriage.

It was Sarah's fault that Charlie had missed out on a lead role in an Oscar-winning movie when she was seventeen, because Sarah had seen the gleam in the director's eye and pulled Charlie from the audition and refused to take his phone calls. Besides, Sarah had been determined that Charlie would finish high school.

But most damning of all, it was Sarah's fault that their drunk mother had died in a pool of her own blood and vomit. It was Sarah's fault that her desperate attempts at CPR had failed to revive their mother's cold and blue corpse. It was Sarah's fault that their mother had drunk a hole in her esophagus and bleed to death.

Greg squeezed her hand, bringing her back to the present. "You can't protect her from herself."

Sarah sighed. "I know."

"But you still try to."

"Yeah."

"C'm'ere."

Sarah welcomed his arms around her. She could forget, just for a moment, that she was angry with him.

She breathed deeply, inhaling his warm smell, letting herself relax against him. It was seductive, this version of him, this occasional glimpse of the soft heart he hid inside. Could she live with it? Wasn't it just another form of the torture Charlie liked to meet out? Punishing Sarah over and over, and then, just when she was about to quit, there'd be some grand gesture. Dedicating her Emmy win to her hard-working sister; turning up to a fundraiser for Sarah's respite center.

Sarah felt like her entire life was spent swinging from punishment to reward and back again. And here she was, doing it again.

"You're an asshole," Sarah said, but there was no heat in it. She snuggled in tighter under his arm.

"Yeah, I know," he sighed.

"And you're especially an asshole because you're being nice to me right now."

"It's all part of my diabolical plan."

"Clearly."

There was silence for a while. Sarah just listened to the thud of his heart beneath her cheek and the sound of their breathing in the quiet room.

"I'm really sorry about last night," he said after a while. His voice was low, more of a rumble than spoken words.

"I know."

"I don't know if you've worked this out or not yet, but I'm the teensiest bit fucked up."

That made her smile. "You don't say."

He stroked her hair back from her face. "I'd like to make love to you," he said softly.

_That was a surprise._ "Uh . . . _what?_" Sarah didn't know what to say.

"I'd like to make love to you," he repeated. "Like, _make love_, not . . ." he trailed off.

"Whatever it is we've been doing," Sarah supplied.

"Exactly."

A shiver trickled down her spine. "Sounds good, but . . ."

"But?"

Could she articulate her fear? What if saying it out loud made it real? "What . . . what if it doesn't work?"

"You think we can't do it unless there's trauma involved?"

"Given our history it's reasonable to assume—"

"We've done it three times. Not exactly a representative sample."

"How many times is a representative sample?"

"I'm thinking . . . _four_."

"But even then it will be three times out of four."

"It's only two out of three if we don't count last night. No actual penetration occurred, so it's not _really_ sex, if we take Clinton's definition. That makes it sixty-six percent versus seventy-five. That's better odds."

Sarah paused. "We don't count last night?"

His arm tightened around her. "We don't have to."

"Why?"

"I . . . I don't know." He stiffened, shuffling a little against the sofa as if he was suddenly uncomfortable.

"Come on. It's your turn to share with the class."

He sighed heavily. "I just . . . I don't know how to say this without making it worse."

Sarah snorted. "How much worse could it get? You called out another woman's name when you came in my mouth."

"That's just it. It wasn't you. I wasn't thinking about you."

"Oh, that's so flattering."

He made an irritated noise. "See? I told you it would make it worse. But you wouldn't listen."

Sarah pushed away from him and he dropped his arms from around her. This conversation required eye contact.

"Tell me," she said. "Explain it to me. I won't interrupt."

"Why did you become a nurse?" he asked.

"Why are you changing the subject?"

He ignored her. "Because clearly your calling is therapy."

"Every therapist I've ever met is completely screwed up," Sarah said.

He smiled a sly half smile. "So?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Yeah, okay, so I'm completely screwed up too. I'm just not _so_ screwed up that I can deal with other people's screwed-up-ness along with my own."

"What about Charlie? And me?" he challenged.

"I think that's more than enough for one person to deal with, don't you?"

"You've been trying to thera-fy me since we met," he insisted.

"You've needed it!"

There was a pause as they glared at each other, eyes flashing. Then he smiled. "I knew I liked you for a reason."

Sarah fought to keep from returning his smile, but her mouth twitched, giving her away. "You're infuriating."

"So I'm told."

Sarah closed her eyes for a moment and sucked in a deep breath. What was going on here? What did she want?

She opened her eyes and looked into those deep and deceptively clear blue eyes. His smile dropped, so she knew he could see she was serious.

"I need to know more about Lisa," she said eventually. "I don't know why I need to know, but it's not about 'thera-fying' you – it's for me. Maybe it's just my own masochistic tendencies. It's probably going to hurt me to hear about it, so I just can't resist." She threw up her hands. She hadn't meant to reveal so much, but now the words were out there she didn't regret them.

"I'm sorry I made you swallow," he said after a pause.

"Jesus, you really just don't get it, do you? It's not about the swallowing. I'd do that again – although a warning is always nice."

He flashed a grin. "Excellent."

"For fuck's sake, Greg." Sarah's patience snapped. She leapt up from the sofa, intending to walk out. Even her tolerance for punishment had its limits.

"Wait." He grabbed her hand before she could take a step.

Sarah felt breathless. "Are we going to talk properly?"

He twisted his mouth into a grimace. "I'll try. That's all I can promise."

"That's a good start." She sat down again. When he didn't say anything for a while, she decided to begin herself. "You know how you asked me to call you 'master' last night? You really are a master – a master of deflection."

"I do my best," he muttered.

"See?" She shook her head. "Why did you ask me to call you 'House'?"

He didn't meet her eyes. "It's my name."

"I know that." Sarah decided not to say anything further. The silence stretched on.

"It's . . ." he started. He cleared his throat. "It's what _she_ calls me."

"You mean Lisa." Sarah couldn't help the clench in her belly, even as she wasn't surprised by the revelation. She struggled to name the feeling that came close to a clawing kind of nausea.

"Yes."

"She calls you House? What do you call her?"

"I call her Cuddy. But I'd like to think . . ."

Sarah could fill in the gap. "If she was giving you a blow job, you'd call her Lisa."

"Yeah." He tunneled his fingers through his hair, leaving it messy and ruffled. "Sarah, it's not as . . . I dunno . . . _tawdry_ as it sounds. I wasn't sitting there pretending you were her. I was just arguing with her on the phone, and that's what we do. We argue and flirt, and get under each other's skin, and annoy the crap out of each other. That's our dynamic. And she and I were doing that, while you were . . ."

He reached for his drink and downed it in one gulp. "What can I say? Men's brains are simpler than women's. It wasn't a conscious thing. I was about to blow my load and the wires got crossed. Not just the name, but . . . I used you to win the argument with her – I shut her, you, up."

"You hurt me," Sarah said, pressing a hand to her scalp where he'd pulled hard on her hair. It still felt bruised.

His eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I know. But while we're sharing here, you have to admit that me hurting you kind of rings your bells."

Sarah felt her face heat. She wasn't ready to deal with that knowledge yet, even as she had to admit to its truth. "Maybe," she mumbled.

"Hmm." Clearly he wanted to say more, but he seemed to be willing to let it go, for now.

Sarah sighed. "So now what?" she asked.

"We can grab something to eat, if you want," Greg offered.

She thought about it. "Thanks, but if it's okay with you, I think I just want to go back to my apartment and go to sleep. I'm exhausted, my back's sore, my ankle still hurts, and I'm still worried about Charlie."

"Fair enough."

"Maybe we could catch up tomorrow night?"

"If I don't have a patient, sure."

She nodded. "Okay." She got up, collected her purse and gave him a smile. "Greg, thanks. I'm glad we talked, even if it was difficult."

He gave her a long look. "Yeah, me too."

* * *

-

Sarah was at her front door before she realized she hadn't kissed him goodbye, and she regretted it, even if her feelings for him were still far less than clear. She half wanted to run back downstairs, but figured that would be a little too needy.

A couple of hours later she'd brushed her teeth, changed into a t-shirt and climbed into bed when there was a knock at the door.

Puzzled, she grabbed a robe and checked the peephole before opening the door.

"Greg? Everything okay?" He was in his pajamas, holding a glass with a couple of fingers of scotch inside and what looked like a medical journal.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, heading down the corridor towards her bedroom.

"Greg?" She closed the door and hurried after him.

In the bedroom, he turned and sat on the bed, facing her. "I just figured you needed to get a good night's sleep tonight and my squeaky bed might keep you awake."

"So you thought you'd sleep here instead." Sarah filled in the gaps.

"It makes sense."

"O-kay . . ." she said hesitantly.

"I'm not ready to sleep yet, but can I drink and read while you sleep."

Sarah leaned one hip against the wall. "And is that all you want?"

"For tonight? Yeah." He slipped his feet under the covers, clearly confident she wouldn't send him away.

She remembered how well she'd slept for the brief time she'd lain in his arms the previous night. But although their conversation had left her feeling better, it hadn't really cleared up anything. He was still in love with someone else; he was still an addict; she was still worried sick about her sister. They still had a weird dynamic to their lovemaking that Sarah was too scared to explore further as yet.

But he was so warm. And he smelled so good.

She let out a long breath and moved away from the wall. "Okay."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** Thank you all again for your lovely reviews.

* * *

**Thursday evening**

_Knock, knock._

Since he'd slept chastely in Sarah's bed three days ago, House hadn't seen her. The first night he'd been home, but decided to give her some space. Since then he'd been at the hospital. At first, by choice. Then, by quarantine.

_Knock, knock._

Finally, a case that interested him. A case – not a patient. The way it was supposed to be.

_How many twenty-first century doctors get to treat smallpox? _

Her voice came next, as he knew it would. "Greg? Are you home? I saw your bike outside. Is everything okay?"

_How many twenty-first century doctors get to almost die from smallpox? _

He ignored the knock, ignored the words, focused instead on the warm glow of the lamp in the corner and the gentle, chemically-induced peace that flowed through his body. He took another sip from the tumbler in front of him.

"Greg?"

He thought about how his warm glow might be enhanced by a warm body, but then the pleasure of being high was pretty much a solitary pursuit. Funny thing about drugs – they were often a social thing, even described as a 'society' problem, but they were so very, very individual.

Footsteps moved away from his door.

"Hang on," he called out, not entirely sure why.

He got up, swaying slightly. A year off Vicodin had definitely reduced his tolerance. Two pills and one drink and he felt a blissful numbness. Perhaps it was worth the deprivation in order to achieve this kind of easy relief.

Sarah was in a soft sweater and jeans, her dark blonde hair loose around her shoulders, her face scrubbed of makeup.

"What time is it?" he asked. The question he really wanted to ask was "What day is it", because seeing her dressed like that made him wonder if it was the weekend and he'd lost days, not hours, sitting on his sofa in a stupor. But asking that would give away too much.

"A little after seven. I just got home from work about half an hour ago," she explained. "I wondered if you might want some company."

"Sure, come in." He flung a hand wide in invitation. She gave him a strange look, but stepped inside.

"Everything okay?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Hunky dory."

She settled down on his sofa the way she always did, one bare foot tucked up beneath her. She hadn't even asked permission to take off her shoes. The assumption that she felt welcome to make herself at home prickled, but he wasn't sure why. And he wasn't about to pursue it. Arguing would only ruin the current state of blissful numbness he'd broken a year of sobriety to achieve.

"Seems like it's my turn to ask 'how was your day'," Sarah said. She gave him what he was sure was meant to be an encouraging smile.

House slumped onto the sofa, crashing into Sarah's body awkwardly. He tried to cover it by wrapping his arms around her in a hug. He'd been right; a warm body _did_ enhance his warm glow. He sighed contentedly.

"It's nice to see you too," Sarah said with an element of surprise in her voice. After a few moments she wriggled out of his grasp and he let her go.

His head fell back against the sofa and he closed his eyes. He wasn't _that_ stoned, but he was at home, he was feeling no pain, and better yet, he was alive. It was enough to make the simple pleasure of closing his eyes worth savoring.

"What happened to you today?" Sarah asked.

"I didn't die," he said after a while.

"What?"

"I didn't die from smallpox."

"_Smallpox?_"

"Yeah."

"Smallpox?" Sarah repeated. "You mean the disease that was eradicated fifty years ago?"

"Thirty years ago," he corrected.

"Whatever."

"Yeah. Smallpox."

"You had a patient with smallpox." Her words dripped with disbelief.

"No, not in the end, no. But I thought so, for a while. So did the CDC. And I'd been exposed. I spent twelve hours in isolation waiting for symptoms to develop, treating the patient while I waited to see if I was going to die."

"But you're okay." It wasn't quite a question.

House registered the hint of fear in her voice, but couldn't bring himself to do anything to reassure her. "He died."

"The patient?"

"Yeah." House opened his eyes. Sarah was sitting closer to him than he'd thought, close enough for him to pick out the gold flecks in her wide eyes. Wide eyes like a deer in the headlights. He had the fleeting thought that she was _really_ seeing him, for the first time. Then he remembered what she'd seen in the bathroom the first time they'd met.

He reached for his whisky and took a large swallow. Of everyone in his life, somehow this woman, barely more than a stranger, knew him best of all. He couldn't bear the pretense any longer.

"I took a couple of pills," he said simply.

She looked confused at the change of subject for a moment but then her eyes flooded with understanding. "Oh," was all she said.

"Surprising really, how the specter of imminent death changes your priorities," he said.

She nodded slowly. "That it does."

"But only briefly. Once the specter fades it's back to normality. Selfishness, vanity, pettiness, stupidity – all the daily wonders of the human condition."

Her forehead creased with a frown. "Greg, would you do me a favor?"

He studied her. Was she finally going to break that Mother Theresa thing she had going on and lecture him? Tell him to get his ass back to rehab? Tell him how much work he'd undone with one little slip? Suddenly he could hardly wait for the fight.

"What?" he spat.

"Don't have any more alcohol tonight." Her voice was gentle.

It wasn't what he'd been expecting and he felt strangely let down. "Why?"

"You've been off the Vicodin for a while, right? You know that your first dose after a break is going to hit you hard. Don't make your body process the booze as well."

House shrugged. He'd already had enough to add an extra fuzz to the opioids in his system. "Fine."

She nodded. "Shall I take away the temptation?"

He registered her careful question as he shrugged his agreement. The glass shook as she picked it up, a little of the amber liquid spilling over the side as she headed for the kitchen. There came the brief sounds of the tap being turned on and the glass being set down on the sink.

House leaned his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes again.

He could tell when she joined him back on the sofa; she brought with her the oaky whiff of fine fifteen-year-old scotch.

"Did you drink it?" he asked.

"I had a sip. The rest went down the sink."

"Dutch courage." She needed it to deal with him. Most people probably did.

"Yeah." She gave a shaky sigh.

"Pity you didn't drink it all. Too good to go down the drain." Now the light was making pink and red patterns against the inside of his eyelids. It was mildly nauseating. Annoyingly, his buzz was beginning to abate. Whether it was the conversation or the admission of his slip, he was now no longer able to just sit and enjoy his glow. He opened his eyes again and sneered at her. "You should leave."

She swallowed before answering. "You know I can't do that."

"No, you really should."

"Why?"

House sucked in a breath and let it out in a long sigh. He didn't even know where to begin answering that question.

"Sorry Greg. I know we don't know each other all that well yet, but you do know me enough to know that I can't just disappear now."

"You're a fucking pain in the ass."

"Probably."

He wished he hadn't let her take away the drink.

"You wanna watch some TV?" she asked. "Or read? I can make you a cup of coffee."

"I want a scotch and another couple of pills," he said.

"I know you do," she said annoyingly.

"You can't stop me." Way to sound like a five-year-old, House, he told himself.

"Nope, I probably can't. But I can get in your way."

He snorted a derisive laugh. "I thought you got off on your own pain. But clearly you don't discriminate. Anyone's pain will do. This giving you a thrill? Is my pathetic neediness making you wet?"

"Don't," she said quietly. "Don't just keep saying stuff until we both feel worse than we already do."

He ignored her. "You're in luck – my leg doesn't hurt at all right now. I can probably torture you in ways you haven't even dreamt of yet."

"Do you have any board games?" Sarah asked, looking around the apartment. "Scrabble? Monopoly? I play a pretty mean game of Pictionary."

"Seriously, I could tie you up. We can make a quick trip down to the sex shop and pick up supplies. How about a riding crop? A flogger? Nipple clamps?"

"Greg, please."

"What? You're suggesting activities, I'm suggesting alternatives."

"Are you going to keep this up all night?"

"No. I'm going to take some more pills and pass out, with any luck."

She sighed, sinking back against the sofa as if he'd defeated her. He felt strangely disappointed that she'd given in so easily.

Still she wasn't getting up and leaving, so perhaps all wasn't lost. Yet. Perhaps there was still a chance of a good, blazing argument. A couple of pills after that would feel awesome. That or sex.

Sarah leaned forward and reached for the remote. She turned on the TV and flicked the channels for a while before settling on an old movie. Snuggling back into the sofa she appeared to be settling in to stay, but she still hadn't said anything.

During the next ad break, Sarah brought back two glasses of water from the kitchen, putting one in front of him without comment.

After another few minutes had passed, House couldn't take the silence anymore. "What the hell kind of movie is this?"

"It's _To Sir With Love_," Sarah said as if the answer was obvious.

"It's crap."

"It's not crap. It was ground-breaking at the time."

"It's been done better since. _School of Rock_ comes to mind. And that gives you some idea at exactly where I'm pitching this film."

"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

"Pft." House made a dismissive noise.

She didn't say anything further.

He watched her for a while. She really loved movies. She seemed to be paying rapt attention to the screen, soaking in every scene. As far as House was concerned the movie was neither good enough to warrant his attention, nor bad enough to warrant his scorn.

All of a sudden he was overcome with exhaustion. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept, and the past twenty-four hours had registered at least an eight on the personal-crisis Richter scale. He'd been so sure he was right when he'd rushed into that patient's room, ignoring the CDC minion's orders. As it turned out, he _was right_, only he'd spent a number of hours sitting in a hazmat suit doubting himself in the meantime. It wasn't something he was used to – and it seemed to happen more and more often these days.

"Are you tired?" Sarah asked gently, breaking into his thought.

"Yeah."

"Have the pills worn off a little? Enough for it to be safe for you to sleep?"

House could feel his leg again – still not the usual amount of pain, but more than before – so he guessed they probably had. "Yeah," he sighed. He was too tired to battle with that little orange bottle again. He'd either take some or he wouldn't. Fighting it he didn't have the energy for.

"Come here." Sarah gestured to him, stretching out one arm.

House hesitated, not entirely sure why. Then he slid against the leather sofa, leaning into her, letting her wrap her arms around him and hug him to her. He leaned over further, tucking his feet up on to the sofa, until eventually his head was in her lap.

Sarah rested her palm gently on his head, her fingers stroking the hair back behind his ear, bringing back some strange childhood memory of reassurance that he couldn't place.

He closed his eyes, images of orange pill bottles blinking to life behind his eyelids. The warm glow of his bliss was fading fast and if he went to sleep he'd lose it completely. But then, all it would take to bring it back was another pill. He took in a deep breath.

Sarah smelled like floral perfume and clean laundry and whisky.

Wondering why that combination was so fundamentally appealing, House drifted into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

-

"Greg?" He'd been asleep for an hour or so and Sarah was loathe to disturb him, but she needed to move, her calf had started to cramp. Somehow he'd wedged himself into the couch so determinedly she couldn't escape without getting his head out of her lap. He'd probably done it accidentally on purpose.

"Greg? Time for bed. Come on, up you get."

"Huh?" He mumbled something unintelligible and then rubbed his hand against his face, his beard rasping. Then he snuggled his head closer to her stomach, making himself more comfortable, like a cat.

She smiled. "Come on Greg." She gave him a gentle nudge. "It's just a few steps up the corridor."

He let out a groan of protest, but she felt awareness return to his body – slowly, as if the drugs still dulled his senses.

"Why did you wake me up?" he asked after a moment, his voice gravelly with sleep.

"Because my legs are cramping and I need you to move."

"Oh."

Sarah was surprised he didn't make another quip about her penchant for pain, but perhaps he was too sleepy.

With a grunt of effort he levered himself up to a sitting position, lifting his bad leg to the floor.

Sarah stretched out her legs, rolling her ankles, wincing at the pins and needles as the blood flow returned.

She stood, stretching up to her toes, unkinking her back, looking up to the ceiling and arching gently to pop her spine. It clicked loudly a couple of times, making her sigh in relief.

"That's better," she said to no one in particular.

She looked back at Greg and found him staring at her intently, a studied look of concentration in his slightly blood-shot eyes.

"Why are you still here?" he asked.

Sarah didn't answer because she didn't _know_ the answer. "Come on," she said, holding out a hand.

He took it and rose to his feet, bracing himself mostly on the arm of the sofa rather than on her.

In the bedroom he tossed his cane into a corner and then stopped to yawn loudly and extravagantly, like a small child.

His sleepiness, his apparent vulnerability, brought out something almost maternal in Sarah. She smiled as she remembered a long-ago time; putting a sleepy Charlie to bed, brushing that beautiful blonde hair back on the pillow, smelling that sweet childhood fragrance of milk and innocence and Play Doh.

Given the eight-year age difference and their mother's patchy sobriety – worse after their father had left – Sarah had often done bedtime duty of reading stories, cajoling sleep, dealing with the fallout of nightmares. She'd also helped with homework, ensured Charlie's meals included something green, and scolded misbehavior.

Sarah had made the decision a long time ago that she didn't want children of her own – she'd already raised a daughter, more or less. Caring for others through her work brought her the kind of satisfaction she thought came close to being a parent.

Without the risk.

"How long has it been since you slept properly?" Sarah asked, clucking her tongue. She began unbuttoning his shirt and he made no move to stop her.

"Dunno," he said.

She pushed the shirt off his shoulders and then lifted the t-shirt he wore underneath over his head. He raised his arms obediently to assist.

Her fingers started working on his belt and Sarah's maternal stirrings were edged out by other, less altruistic ones. She met his eyes, and any impression that she'd been dealing with a sleepy child were extinguished immediately. Dark and serious, his gaze burned hotly into hers. She swallowed hard.

Releasing the zipper, it was obvious his eyes weren't the only part of his body that had suddenly awoken. But as the jeans slipped down to the floor, a telltale rattle made a shiver tingle its icy fingers up Sarah's spine.

She bent over to work the jeans off his feet. He lifted each foot to help her, and she took off his socks while she was there. She tossed the socks into a corner, but held the belted jeans over one arm as she straightened to face him. He was watching her carefully and Sarah knew this was a make-or-break moment. Something nice was going to happen, or something nasty. Her next actions were going to determine that.

Reaching into the jeans pocket, she withdrew the pill bottle and set it on the dresser. She made a mental note of its exact position, lining it up with the edge of one of the drawers below in a way she hoped he wouldn't notice. She might not be able to stop him taking more, but at least if she knew he had, she could be prepared. Watch for overdose symptoms. Know whether this was just an understandable little slip brought on by the stress of the situation he'd just been through, or the start of something bigger.

She wished she could count how many pills remained in the bottle, but she was sure that would earn her the nasty outcome, and she didn't want that. She cared about him. She didn't want him to come to harm. But _she_ didn't want to come to harm either – at least, not any more than she already had.

Before she could think any further, he was kissing her.

Clearly she'd done the right thing.

His jeans fell to the floor as her arms went to his shoulders, grasping him to keep her balance as he kissed her. Not violently. Not passionately. With one of those kisses he'd given her after their date. The sweetest, gentlest meeting of mouths that melted Sarah from the inside out and made simply standing a tricky business.

She sighed, parting her lips, wordlessly begging him to deepen their connection, but he didn't, nibbling her mouth, occasionally flicking his tongue to taste her. He stole her breath away.

Mindless with her focus on the kiss, she barely registered his hands on her sweater, unthinkingly raising her arms to let him pull it from her, annoyed by the moment she was required to break the link with his mouth in order for the garment to come off. He undid her jeans, pushing them down her thighs, and Sarah wriggled to get them to the floor so she could step out of them.

She only realized her bra was undone and off when she pushed closer to him and felt her bare skin connect with the light dusting of hair on his chest, the smoothness of skin beneath, and the hard muscle and bone beneath that. She whimpered at the contact, provoking an answering rumble of need from somewhere deep in his throat.

They stepped awkwardly to the bed, trying to keep up the kiss, both of them also struggling out of their underwear. Finally Sarah felt the mattress hit the back of her thighs and she sank down, relieved that her knees no longer needed to hold her up.

He climbed on the bed next to her, surprising her with his strength as he lifted her and re-positioned her to his liking. Sarah's fingers went to the hard muscles of his arms, tracing the bulges and valleys, pressing her mouth to the inside of his elbow and the satiny skin there.

His fingers combed through her hair, gently brushing it back from her face until his palms cupped her cheeks, raising her head to meet his eyes.

"You really are a sucker for punishment," he said, his voice a soft contrast to the harshness of his words.

For a moment Sarah stilled, wondering if he was about to change the tone, hoping he wasn't, hoping they could make this work.

Then his eyes fluttered closed as he lowered his mouth to hers and he kissed her again, slowly, making love to her just as he'd promised he would.

He held her to him, his hands on her face stroking her as they controlled her, allowing him all the power of the kiss. His tongue flicked at her lips and Sarah willingly let him in, groaning as he explored her mouth with agonizing laziness.

He lay her down, coming to lie next to her, maintaining the connection with her mouth while his hands explored her body. He seemed determined to touch every inch of her skin as she felt his fingertips on her belly, her thighs, her wrists. She writhed with the need to feel him touch her intimately.

Her hands did some exploring of their own. The crisp hair on his chest hid flat nipples that responded to her lips and tongue, puckering into hard nubs. His shoulders were rounded with muscle and covered by silky skin that Sarah gently dragged her teeth over then licked and kissed. Her hand explored his belly, the tight skin over his hipbone, even down to the rough skin where his scar began. He stiffened as her fingers brushed over it, but she didn't linger and he soon relaxed again.

He stroked her inner thighs, and Sarah could feel her body responding to him, making ready for his possession. Blood pulsed in her ears, her breasts were heavy and tender, her belly tight with need.

"Greg." His name was barely a breath, a sound of desperation; surely he couldn't make her wait any longer.

She stroked the crease of his thigh and hip, tracing the line to his groin, tangling in the hair there before she grasped the weight of him in her palm. He gasped and his forehead fell against her shoulder as she caressed him, delighting in the hard, heavy throb of him in her hand.

And then he was over her, his hand delving between her legs, finding out what Sarah already knew – she was more than ready for him.

"Yes," she said, answering his unasked question.

Both of them helped to position him, their fingers tangling as he sought her entrance.

"Yes," he echoed on a long out-breath, taking his time to slip inside her, an inch at a time, until Sarah felt filled, completed, whole. A thrill of fear at that very sensation threatened at the edges of her mind, but she pushed it away, crossing her ankles behind his thighs to hold him within her.

He paused, deep inside, to kiss her again. An open, passionate, wet kiss, he took her tongue into his mouth and sucked it, prompting convulsions of muscles hidden within her that made him shudder against her.

He began to move, pulling out only to plunge back inside, taking her over and over, building the pulsing heat in her belly to firestorm proportions. On every stroke he hit the perfect place inside her, and Sarah could only gasp and try to remember to breathe as he worked over her.

His kisses trailed over her cheek to her ear, sucking her earlobe, his breath hot and loud.

"Sarah," he whispered, his lips moving against her skin. "Sarah, Sarah, Sarah."

Even knowing why he did it didn't lessen the thrill of hearing her name on his lips, chanted more desperately as their climaxes approached.

Then he pushed away from her, resting his weight on his hands, allowing him to take her with more powerful thrusts.

Her breath caught. The world around them stopped. And Sarah crashed into a wall of pleasure that blanked her mind, stole her breath and froze her body. Her muscles clenched around him, pulling him deeper, and she cried out, a desperate sound the only way to express the exquisite sensations that threatened to drown her.

She was just aware enough to register that he called her name again, throwing his head back to the ceiling, his rhythm becoming ragged and broken. His release pulsed into her, sending another wave of pleasure washing through her body, making her breath catch in a sob.

Sarah felt the ripples through her entire body, magnified by his shudders against her, within her.

"Oh God," he moaned finally. His trembling arms gave out, and he twisted and fell to the side, landing heavily. Sarah instantly turned to him and plastered herself to his body, breasts to his chest, wrapping her arms around him. She was shivering, not sure why, unable to stop. She felt his arm on her back, his hand splayed open between her shoulder blades as if he were as desperate for the contact as she was. For long minutes they simply held each other, breathing hard, occasionally dropping kisses wherever they could reach.

Then, as the power of what they'd shared began to abate, as their breathing began to normalize, his grip on her loosened. Sweat, saliva and the fluids of their lovemaking slicked their bodies as they moved against each other. Sarah settled against his side, her head in the crook of his shoulder. His arm wrapped around her, one long finger stroking her skin.

"I told you," he said once they were settled again, still sounding slightly breathless.

"Told me what?"

"Sixty-six percent; the odds were worth playing."

She smiled, remembering their conversation. "You were right."

"I should be. I've made a lot of money at the OTB."

Sarah feigned indignation. "I hope you're not comparing what just happened here to winning a bet on a horse race."

"Well, I did once—"

"Shut up," Sarah said with a laugh, giving him a playful slap. "You're spoiling the moment."

A low laugh rumbled in his chest but he did as she asked and didn't say anything further. His breathing slowed gradually, his arm around her loosened, and sleep claimed him.

Sarah lay awake a while longer, enjoying the tingling aftershocks that lingered in her body. Although she felt loose-limbed and heavy, pleasantly sleepy, a part of her wasn't yet ready to shut down. The power of their connection, the knowledge that he filled an empty space inside her she hadn't known existed, was terrifying even as she knew she wanted more. Something had shifted between them this evening, something that made this more than an unwise affair with an unsuitable man.

His breathing was slow and steady as he lay beside her, his heartbeat an intimate, comforting thump under her cheek. In stark contrast, across the room, sitting on the dresser, was an orange beacon of warning; danger ahead.

What was going to happen next? Sarah didn't know and didn't like the uncertainty. She wondered about getting rid of the pills. But then if she kept taking away the temptation, he'd never have to learn the self-restraint of doing it himself. He needed to fight that battle for himself, just like he had in the bathroom the first time they'd met.

Only, back then he'd been a stranger. His pain had been an objective thing, she'd taken care of him as a bystander, he'd been like a patient to her. Things were far more complex now.

She remembered his advice to her about Charlie. _This is what addicts do to the people who care about them._

Sarah sighed and buried her head closer against his neck, inhaling the scents of clean sweat, sex, and the woody aftershave he wore. She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Sarah woke up, confused at first as to where she was. Once she remembered, she took in a deep breath and let it out, stretching her body and enjoying the twinge of complaining muscles. Her thighs were still slick and she was thirsty, drained by their exertions.

The bed next to her was empty.

She got up and found her panties and her sweater, pulling on both before heading to the bathroom to pee and clean up a little. When she returned to the bedroom she checked the time on Greg's digital alarm clock – just after seven in the morning. Rain battered the window and made the room dark and gloomy. She yawned. It felt as if it should still be the middle of the night.

The bedroom door had been closed and there was the faint sound of music coming from the other side. Hoping she might find him playing piano again, Sarah put her hand to the doorknob before she froze.

_The dresser was empty. _

The orange beacon of warning was gone.

Dreading what she might find, Sarah opened the door and padded quietly down the corridor to the living room.

He was sitting at the piano, picking quietly at a melody with one hand; the other grasped a coffee mug. The air smelled of brewed coffee, so at least it wasn't alcohol, she figured. Although no telling whether he might have poured in a shot. Her mother hadn't been above topping up her morning cup with vodka.

The pill bottle was sitting on the top of the piano in front of him.

He sensed her presence and looked up, hand stilling on the keyboard.

"Did I wake you?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No."

He gave a short nod. "Good. There's coffee if you want some."

"Thanks." Instead of heading for the kitchen, she walked over to the piano and kissed him. As soon as their lips met, sensations of the night before washed over her, threatening to overwhelm her, wiping her brain of thought. She had enough presence of mind to flick out her tongue to taste him.

Just coffee.

No whisky. No vodka. Not even any bitter aftertaste of medication – although he could have swallowed the pills half an hour ago and she wouldn't know.

"Good morning to you too," he said with a smile when she pulled back.

"Good morning," she said, trying to keep her face composed. She spun around to the kitchen. "I'll grab a quick coffee and then I have to go upstairs and get ready for work."

"It's Friday, right?" he asked.

She turned and stared at him, a sick feeling of dread clawing at her stomach. _He didn't know what day it was?_

He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. When he opened them again, they were troubled. "I'm not stoned," he said, clearly fighting for an even tone in his voice. "I lost track of days at the hospital, in quarantine. I'm pretty sure it's Friday, but I thought it might have been Saturday and you wouldn't have to work."

"If you didn't take any, then why . . ." Sarah lifted a hand and waved at the pill bottle in front of him.

His hand slipped from the keys and he slumped on the piano stool. "I . . . I don't know. I was going to, I was . . ." He threw up his hands in defeat. "I wanted them with me just in case."

Sarah's anxiety wasn't appeased. "Where did they come from anyway?"

"I bullied a junior doctor in the clinic to write me a script. I think she was new, I'd never seen her before."

"Will she get into trouble?"

Greg shrugged. "I dunno." He paused. "Bitch only wrote it for ten pills."

"How many are left in the bottle?" Sarah asked, dreading the answer.

"Eight."

"Really?" Sarah asked, disbelieving.

"Want to count?" he challenged.

She hesitated, but then figured she might as well be honest. "Yes. I do."

He picked up the bottle and expertly flicked off the lid, tipping it over with a twist of his wrist so the pills spilled out over the piano lid.

It didn't take long to scan the scattered white oblongs and count them up. _Eight._ "Thank you for telling the truth," she said.

"Thank you for your awesome trust in me," he replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Sarah swallowed hard, but she stepped to the piano and scooped up the pills into her hand. "Seriously, Greg?" She looked at him. "I'm not falling for that." _Not again_, she added silently.

"What?" He still looked angry.

"Trust. You're an addict. You have to know that that's the one thing you're always going to struggle with receiving from other people."

He opened his mouth as if to argue, but then closed it again.

Sarah held out a hand and he dropped the orange pill bottle into it. She poured the pills back inside and snapped the lid on. Then, with a slightly trembling hand, wondering with every moment whether or not she was doing the right thing, she put the bottle back on the piano, exactly where it had been sitting before, and went into the kitchen to pour herself a coffee.

She'd just taken a sip when she felt him behind her. His hand slipped around her, scooting under her sweater to cup the swell of her belly. The other hand swept her hair back from her shoulder and he pressed a kiss to her neck, his beard tickling her skin.

"Play hooky today," he said.

"Huh?" Sarah took a sip of her coffee and tried not to let herself sway back into his embrace. The sudden change of tempo made her feel dizzy.

"Call in sick to work," he said, nibbling along her neck. "I can write you a note. I can call for you. Tell them you've got the worst diarrhea in the world, can't get off the potty. Or food poisoning. You're throwing up your guts everywhere. Or a headache. A migraine – you can't stand any light."

Even as the responsible part of her brain began a mental run-though of her "to do" list that did not possibly allow for an unplanned day off, another side of her longed to throw caution to the wind, to take this chance on him, to take a day for herself.

"I can't—" she began.

"Where's your phone?" he asked. He abruptly left her, and Sarah took a staggering step to restore her balance. Grasping the coffee mug with both hands she took a long sip and leaned her hip against the counter.

_Could she do this?_ She'd never called in sick without actually being sick. Never abused the system. Never taken a day out just for herself. When she'd legitimately been injured, unable to work, she'd longed for a shift, longed to be back nursing, contributing to the world and not just observing it from a bed. But she remembered the feeling from last night, the connection, being part of him, him being part of her. The idea of wallowing in those sensations for a whole day filled her with longing.

He returned from the living room with her purse and dumped it on the counter to rummage through the contents. When he found her phone he yelled a triumphant "A-ha!" and flipped it open.

"What's your assistant's name?" he asked.

Sarah sputtered a laugh around the sip of coffee she'd just taken. "Assistant? I work in mental health. You've got to be kidding."

"No assistant. Okay, who do you call then?"

Sarah didn't actually know. She'd never called in sick since she'd started work at the centre. "Probably the director of nursing." _Was she really going to let him do this?_

"And that would be who?" he asked, concentrating on the phone, clearly scrolling through her contacts list.

"Margaret Simons." _Looked like she was. _

He frowned at the phone for a while longer until he found Margaret's number and pressed the button to dial.

"Don't worry," he said, giving her a mischievous grin as he held the phone up to his ear. "I'll make it something really embarrassing so that she won't ask you about it on Monday. How about severe vaginal thrush?"

Sarah reached for the phone. "Don't you dare—"

He hopped away from her, gripping her sweater in his fist to keep her out of reach. Sarah futilely jumped and grabbed for the phone, swearing at him. "Greg, seriously, stop this, you can't embarrass me—"

"Hello, Margaret Simons?" His voice had dropped to his serious, doctorly tone. "This is Doctor Gregory House from Princeton Plainsboro Hospital." He gave Sarah an even broader grin, a marked contrast to his severe-sounding voice. She stopped talking, not wanting Margaret to hear her voice in the background. "I'm calling on behalf of Sarah Hardiman. I'm afraid Sarah won't be at work today. She's presented at our clinic with . . ." He paused just long enough to make Sarah's stomach leap with anxiety. " . . . With a nasty stomach flu that we've seen going around. I've advised her to take forty-eight hours of bed rest and avoid contact with others. She asked me to let you know that she won't be at work today as a result."

He snapped the phone shut with a triumphant smile. "It was her voicemail," he said.

"You, you . . ." Sarah spluttered.

"Come on, you loved it," he crowed. "Sometimes not knowing whether or not you can trust me gives you the kind of thrill you can only get at Six Flags."

"That was not fun," Sarah said. "That's my work, my reputation."

"Not today it isn't."

Sarah realized she was rapidly losing the argument. And now she had a whole day in front of her with no commitments, no duties, no one to take care of. Except him. And he was more than enough.

"Maybe that's what we should do today," he mused, tossing her phone on the kitchen counter. "An amusement park. What do you think?"

Sarah threw up her hands in defeat. "Whatever you want," she said finally. "I'm in your hands."

"In my hands we'll go back to bed and stay there all day." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Sarah shrugged. "Okay." She could certainly think of worse ways to spend a day.

He frowned, looking thoughtful. "No, there's other things we need to do too. We can do that later." He grabbed her shoulders and steered her towards the bedroom, giving her bottom a cheeky slap. "Go have a shower and get dressed and we'll grab breakfast somewhere first."

"I need to go home, get clean clothes," Sarah protested as she gathered up her scattered clothing from around the room.

"Fine. That'll be faster anyway, I can shower here while you're upstairs."

Sarah pulled on her jeans and ran her hands through her hair, trying to tame the bird's nest it had turned into over night. "Okay, I'll meet you back down here."

"Half an hour," he said, shaking a finger in warning. "And don't think you can go sneaking in any work while you're up there. I'm hungry."

She laughed and watched as he stripped off the pajama pants and t-shirt he was wearing and limped to the bathroom.

Sarah headed for the living room, a funny tingling feeling running through her as she thought about the day ahead. She felt slightly giddy, like a kid on a snow day – school unexpectedly cancelled, nothing but fun playtime to take over in its place.

As she walked out the door and turned to close it behind her, her eyes lit on the piano.

There was no orange pill bottle sitting on top. In fact, it was nowhere to be seen.

Her thrill vanished.

This was life with Greg House, she realized. There would always be a thread of darkness. Of not knowing. Of not trusting. Combined with the tenderness, passion and vulnerability she'd seen the previous night, and the lightness and playfulness of this morning.

It was a potent mix.

* * *

House's face fell when they walked outside, his hand clasped around Sarah's. _Rain. _Rain wasn't part of his plans. He'd planned to take her on the bike to his favorite diner for breakfast and then maybe a long cruise out somewhere he hadn't quite decided on yet – the beach maybe, or try to find a fairground or an amusement park nearby like he'd threatened.

But this was wintery rain, almost icy, driven by a gusty wind.

"Have you ever ridden a motorbike?" he asked.

She gave him a nervous look. "Not since I was a kid."

It wasn't much of day for bike riding anyway, and certainly not with an inexperienced pillion passenger.

"Okay. We'll take the car."

Disappointed, he led Sarah over to his old pile of junk, both of them hunching into their coats against the cold of the rain. He chivalrously unlocked her door first and helped her inside before crossing over to the driver's side and climbing behind the wheel, throwing his cane into the back seat.

Sarah shook the water from her hair. "_This _is your car?" she asked.

House was insulted. "Hey, don't think just because I got all soppy on you last night, you can start questioning my manhood."

"I wasn't questioning your manhood."

"You dissed my car. Same thing."

"You're a _doctor_."

"So?"

"So where's the BMW? Or a Lexus, at least."

He raised his eyebrows. "We can take your car."

Sarah laughed. "My car's an even older beat-up piece of shit than this. We'll take yours."

"Fine. Shut up about the car."

"Yes, sir."

Funny, he was used to a certain amount of ridicule about his old car from lots of people, but it had never got to him before. For the first time he wished he had a better one, a new, flash car that would have impressed Sarah and made him feel proud. He liked that when he was around her he generally felt like a grown-up, like someone worth taking seriously.

She made him feel like he wanted to be better than he was.

At the diner, Sarah ordered a huge breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon and hashbrowns.

When he raised his eyebrows at her order she flushed slightly. "I'm hungry," she said, shrugging.

When he didn't say anything, her face took on a defensive look. "I didn't have dinner last night. And I exerted myself. I need more energy."

"I didn't say anything," he protested.

"No, but you were thinking it."

"I was thinking that it was good you were getting some carbohydrates. You'll need them for what I have planned for this afternoon," he said smoothly.

She smiled and blushed harder, something he found oddly sweet.

They chatted companionably over their breakfast, sharing a little more detail about each other's lives than they had before. House talked about his peripatetic childhood, amazing her with the sheer number of places he'd lived before he was sixteen and his parents had settled in the US so he could finish his schooling.

Sarah talked about her desire to be a nurse, a career choice she'd settled on after a particularly fortuitous Halloween costume selection when she was seven years old. House asked her about her decision to specialize in psychiatry but he didn't realize until later that while she'd continue to talk, she'd not really answered the question.

As their plates were cleared, House wondered what to do with the rest of the day. The rain hadn't abated, it was still pelting down on the diner windows – if anything harder than before.

"So what next?" Sarah asked, reading his mind.

"I'm really crapped off that it's raining."

"Why?"

"I wanted to take you to a theme park. Or the beach – to one of those fairgrounds on a pier. I don't even know if there is one in driving distance, but I wanted a ferris wheel and a rollercoaster and cotton candy."

"That sounds wonderful," Sarah said sincerely. She gave him a knowing smile. "Oh, Greg House, you are a romantic."

"I am not."

"I bet you were one of those boys who bought a really extravagant corsage for prom or hired a limo or something."

"I never went to prom."

She looked surprised. "Really?"

"It was dumb anyway."

She nodded slowly. "Yeah, I guess it was pretty lame."

House caught the tinge of condescension. "Come on, you're what, forty years old? That means your prom was in the mid-eighties, right? Taffeta, shoulder pads, big hair, electronic music?"

She gave him a cheeky smile. "Yeah, you're right. That's _so_ much worse than a prom from the seventies, I'm sure."

"At least we had better music."

She leaned over the table to pat his arm condescendingly. "You just keep telling yourself that."

He stopped himself from smiling, but only just. An idea hit him – he'd search the movie theatres to see if there were any classic movie marathons on. It was a stretch, but if nothing was playing, they could go to the store and hire a few DVDs and make a huge bowl of popcorn to eat at home, lounging on the couch, listening to the rain. As he thought it through he ditched the idea of the movie theatre and decided on the renting option – if they were home, they could hit "pause" at any point and undertake any other activities that appealed . . .

He reached over the table to grab her hand. "Hey, I've got an idea—"

Sarah's cell phone rang before he could continue and she rummaged in her purse for it. "I'd better check, just in case it's work," she said.

She winced as she looked at her screen.

"Let me guess," he said. "Charlie."

She nodded. "Sorry, I'd better . . ." She held the phone to her ear. "Charlie? What's up? I thought you were in Tunisia?"

House couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, but Sarah's expression brightened a little, so he figured it couldn't be another drunk or stoned call for help.

"I don't know Charlie, I'm not sure if I can . . . No I'm not working, but . . . You'll send a car?" Sarah paused, looking at him, her hand going to her mouth to nibble a fingernail uncertainly. "Can I . . . Can I bring a friend?" she asked into the phone finally.

House frowned.

"Just a minute, I need to ask." She pressed a button on her phone that House figured was to mute the call. "Greg? How do you feel about going to a movie premiere?"

"When?"

"Today, this evening."

"Where?"

"New York. Charlie will send a limo to pick us up. We'll go watch the movie and then they'll drive us home. It starts at five, but the car can only come to get us as twelve, so we'd need to go home and change now to be ready for the car to pick us up."

House was silent.

"What do you think?" she asked nervously. "We don't have to. Not if you don't want to. We can still just stick with your plans."

"Will Charlie be there?" House asked.

Something in Sarah's expression changed, but he couldn't put his finger on exactly what. "Yes, she'll be there."

House was eager to see the dynamic between the two sisters, to see for himself if Charlotte Hardiman really was the self-destructive addict that Sarah had painted. Besides, it was going to be an awesome story to tell Wilson. And who didn't want to meet a gorgeous movie star given half a chance?

"A movie premiere in New York? Who can say no to that?"

He wasn't sure if Sarah looked pleased or disappointed by his answer. But she un-muted her phone and gave Charlie their response. House heard the girlish squeal from the other side of the table as Sarah held the phone away from her ear. After a few more minutes of exchange, Sarah gave her address, confirmed the time the driver would pick them up, and hung up the call.

"Sorry," she said. "I know you wanted to go to a theme park. Maybe, if we get there a little early, we can go to Central Park instead."

"Hey, who's going to chose walking around in the rain over hanging out with stars on the red carpet?" House said honestly, looking forward to the adventure.

"No one, I guess," Sarah said quietly, folding her paper napkin and placing it on the table in front of her.

"What do I have to wear? Not a tux, please. I can't sit in a limo for hours in a tux."

"No, a suit will be fine. If you want, you can bring it with you and we can change in the car."

"Sounds good."

She paused, a strange look of hesitation on her face. "We don't have to do this, you know. I can call and cancel. It's a long way to go there and back in a day, and we'll have to waste a couple of hours before we can go to the theatre . . ."

"Come on, where's your sense of adventure? It'll be fun. Besides, it's not like either of us have to drive. We can hang out in the back, stretch out and drink champagne." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "If we're feeling really racy, we can put up the privacy screen and . . . take our seat belts off."

That prompted a small laugh, and House smiled.

"Fine," she said. "Come on. I'm going to have to find something to wear. My last dress got ruined by a cup of coffee."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Thanks again everyone for your reviews, I can't tell you how wonderful it is to see them in my inbox as they arrive. Just so you know, this story is about 20-22 chapters in total, so we're just over halfway through.

* * *

-

A few hours later they were on the New Jersey turnpike, not far from their destination. It had so far rained for the entire journey, but the traffic had been blessedly reasonable. House was still glad he wasn't driving.

Their limo turned out to be a town car, not a stretch number, but it was a Mercedes and very comfortable. It included screens set into the headrests of the front seats and when the car had arrived and they'd discovered that, Sarah had dashed back into her apartment and come out with a couple of DVDs for them to watch on the way. So they'd managed to get their rainy-day movie-fix too, only they'd been speeding along their way to New York as they'd done it.

"What do you want to do when we get there?" Sarah asked once the movie ended. The car had slowed, the traffic thicker, hailing their approach to Manhattan. "It'll be too early for dinner, besides, I'm still full from breakfast." She yawned and stretched in the seat. She'd found a plain black dress that skimmed her hips and draped low enough to reveal the swells of her breasts. It had a large abstract star-shaped brooch that perched on one shoulder, looking strangely vicious.

"I don't know," House replied. "Maybe we could just walk around, stretch our legs. Where's the cinema?"

"Times Square."

"Of course."

"Of course," Sarah echoed.

"So let's do that."

"Fine with me."

As it turned out the rain was still too heavy to make walking around a good idea, so instead they found a bar, a fairly average one more designed for tourists than the serious partaking of alcohol, and settled into a booth that gave them a view across to the Hershey store. Their polite but aloof Jeeves-type driver had arranged a meeting point for them for after the movie, a block away from the theatre to allow easier access and a faster getaway.

An hour disappeared in easy conversation, but House couldn't help but notice as the minutes ticked down to heading towards the theatre, Sarah began to fidget and shift uncomfortably in her chair.

"You okay?" he was eventually moved to ask as she pressed back into her chair for the hundredth time.

She grimaced. "My back hurts. All the sitting in the car and here."

House thought about offering her one of the eight Vicodin that were sitting in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He figured that might not go down well. "The rain's eased up a little. Let's go kill the next twenty minutes outside. A walk might help."

Sarah nodded in agreement and they headed outside. The crowds were pressing in from every side and as soon as possible they slipped down a side street to escape.

"Greg?" Sarah asked hesitantly.

"Yeah?"

"I think . . . I should warn you."

"Warn me about what?"

She paused for so long that House actually felt a leap of anxiety. "Warn me about what?" he asked again, more urgently.

"About how my sister might treat us."

"What do you mean?"

Sarah walked determinedly beside him, shoulders hunched from either the rain or back pain, he couldn't be sure which. When she spoke, he had to lean down to be sure to hear her.

"Charlie can be a little unpredictable. Sometimes she invites me to things and forgets. Sometimes it's all about her showing off rather than us . . . catching up."

"She forgets? We haven't come all this way—"

Sarah looked up at him. "No, things will be fine tonight. I called her manager to check. We're definitely on the list."

"You have to double check your own sister's invitations?"

"I've learned it's a good idea. I don't know if you noticed, but I had to give her my address this morning. She doesn't remember little things like that."

"Nice," he muttered sarcastically. Not having his own siblings, House wondered if there was some strange kind of sisterhood thing that he was missing.

"Anyway, I just want you to know. Sometimes at these things Charlie is really friendly to me, and sometimes she . . . _isn't_. It depends on who else is around."

"And what drugs or alcohol she's had before she gets there?" House prompted.

Sarah shrugged. "I guess."

"So what about tonight?" House realized he'd been too distracted by other things since finding out the identity of Sarah's famous sister to investigate the whole thing properly. He made a mental note to spend some time with Google the next time he was alone.

"I don't know. This is a science fiction movie that she filmed about a year ago. There are a few other famous actors in it, but it hasn't been nominated for any awards, so it's high profile but not as high pressure as it might have been. There will be media there – Charlie's little stunt in LA guaranteed that – but not as many as there might have been."

"And will she at least say hello to you?"

Sarah screwed up her face, as if she were in pain. "Given that she rang me herself to invite me, then probably yes. But if you . . . Look, just don't expect that you'll get a chance to talk to her, or be a part of . . . _everything_. We'll be on-lookers. I hope that's okay with you."

House wasn't sure what to make of Sarah's explanation. It sounded wrong. Weren't sisters supposed to be close? Again, House wished he'd done more investigating. "What does Charlie say publicly about her family?" he asked.

"Oh, the absent father and abusive alcoholic mother go down a treat with the tabloids," Sarah drawled sarcastically.

House simply raised his eyebrows. More pieces of the puzzle that was Sarah Hardiman clicked into place.

She flushed, apparently just realizing what she'd given away. She looked away, staring down at her feet as they paced down the wet sidewalk. "The older sister that took custody of her after their mother's death is a detail that gets included or overlooked depending on the thoroughness of the journalist at the time," she continued bitterly, the words tumbling out in a hurry. "Other, more important things, began to happen at the same time, like her modeling career taking off. That and the brutal details of our mother's death usually distracts them from considering the legalities of the situation."

House grabbed Sarah's elbow and pulled her under the awning of a bakery, out of the light, drizzling rain. "Whoa, slow down," he said. "Tell me what happened. Start at the beginning."

Sarah plastered a bright smile on her face. "Let's not ruin the day."

"Sarah, you just dropped a huge steaming pile of '_what the fuck_'. Ruining the day is moot at this point."

"Greg, please," she pleaded. "Not right now."

He threw up his hands. "You were the one who brought this up in the first place."

"I was trying to explain about Charlie. I didn't mean . . ." She took his hand, interlacing her fingers with his. "I'll tell you about it sometime, okay? Just not right now." She checked her watch. "It's time to head back for the theatre."

House hesitated. He wanted to know the story. A vaguely sick feeling hovered at the edge of his consciousness, an awareness that this knowledge was going to permanently change things between them. Knowing Sarah was the victim of an addict – her sister – had been one thing and, to be honest, he hadn't really equated it to his own relationship with her. Knowing it was a pattern that had formed her entire life was something else. The bottle of pills in his pocket weighed heavily.

"Okay," he agreed reluctantly. "But this isn't a 'get out of jail free' card. It's just a postponement."

She nodded. "I know."

They walked back to the theatre. A crowd had already formed and pressed against the security barriers that had been put in place to hold them back. Tourists and other bystanders wandered past, all asking each other the same questions. _What's going on? Why the security? Are there any stars? Who's going to be here?_

House let Sarah lead him through the throng, walking them up to a hassled-looking woman with a clipboard and two burly ear-pieced security guards flanking her. Sarah gave her name, showed her ID, and a moment later glass doors closed behind them, cutting down the chatter of the crowd and the noise of traffic to a dim hum. A tuxedoed waiter approached and offered glasses of champagne. House lifted two from the tray and gave one to Sarah.

"Thanks," she said before taking a long sip.

He looked around the foyer. It was about half-full of people, no-one he recognized, and the smell of popcorn was still pervasive over the mingled scents of expensive perfumes and elaborate floral arrangements.

"So, what's the movie about?" House asked, walking over to one of the large, cardboard, pop-up displays that were dotted around the foyer. It showed Charlotte, her long blonde hair streaming behind her, in a shiny black latex suit running into the arms of that guy that had been in _The Hangover_. Something clearly alien was chasing them.

"It's a remake," Sarah explained, "of _Pride and Prejudice_, set in space."

"_What_?"

"Yeah," Sarah said slowly, revealing her own doubts.

"I've never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life."

Sarah struggled to suppress a grin. "Oh, wait 'til the movie starts. Apparently Charlie decided to adopt an English accent for the role. She felt it would be more _authentic_."

House snorted a rude laugh.

Sarah shushed him. "Remember, we're invited guests," she whispered. "We have to applaud like it's Oscar-worthy."

House rolled his eyes. "You brought me to a chick flick. I can't believe it."

"A sci fi chick flick," Sarah amended.

"There'd better be some fight scenes," House warned.

Just then the volume of noise from the street outside trebled. A lightning storm descended as a hundred camera flashes went off at once, not only the paparazzi but the waiting fans and passing tourists, all hoping to catch a glimpse of celebrity – even if they weren't sure exactly who.

There was a gradual shift in the mood of the room that became more urgent. No one wanted to look like they were rushing for the door, but everyone was taking inching, sidelong steps in that direction. It was like a human crab crawl. House thought it was one of the most amusing things he'd ever seen.

Tellingly, Sarah did not participate. She stayed anchored to the cardboard display, and House stayed next to her.

It was the guy who walked in first. House didn't remember his name. He seemed in jovial spirits, talking loudly, waving a hand high in the air at someone or other on the other side of the room. A cluster of people formed around him and drifted over to one side of the foyer.

The lights still flashed. House wondered if it was possible to be a celebrity of any kind if you suffered from epilepsy.

Then in walked Charlotte Hardiman. "Beautiful" hardly came close to describing her. She had an ethereal glow, that silver-blonde hair a silky cascade down her back. She wore a sparkling blue gown, the highest heels he'd ever seen, and House even noticed her jewelry – big and blingy, but clearly real. The plunging neckline of the dress revealed the rounded tops of perfect – _simply perfect_ – breasts.

Amongst the entourage around her, a man walked close by her in a tuxedo and John Lennon glasses, looking serious and unhappy. He scanned the room and House saw him note Sarah. He leaned over and whispered in Charlotte's ear. Charlotte nodded even as she continued to smile and gush to the person hanging on her every word.

"She's had personal trainers and expert nutritionists since she was fourteen," Sarah said in an undertone, her voice bright, but brittle. "I've had night shifts and physical therapy. She got the green eyes, I got hazel. She got the Ds, I got the Cs. We do have the same color hair though – hers is fake."

House could see the resemblance between the sisters now that he was seeing Charlotte in the flesh. Their faces, jaw lines and foreheads had the same sweeping arches. They had the same long, elegant necks. He'd always thought Sarah was attractive, her face and body type had appealed to him right from the start. Seeing Charlotte made him see Sarah differently – in a good way. Charlotte's carefully sculpted appearance made Sarah's understated beauty more apparent.

He recognized that Sarah deliberately chose not to compete with her sister. If Sarah had dyed her hair, maybe lost ten pounds of the curves House frankly quite liked, she'd easily have the screen siren thing going on too. But there was no need for her to do that. She had a beauty he got to appreciate without sharing it with thousands of people on magazine spreads around the world. There was something he preferred about that.

House wanted to say so to Sarah, share his thoughts, tell her something supportive and reassuring, but that wasn't his strength and he didn't know how to phrase it. "You're not as ugly as you think" probably wasn't going to cut it. Neither was "Your sister's a babe, sure, but you're not bad either".

Then it was too late, the circus was upon them.

"Sarah!" A squealing tone that verged on the painful signaled that Charlotte Hardiman's attention had landed on them. Sarah grabbed his hand and squeezed it almost painfully tight. House wondered if she even realized she done it.

A cloud of fragrance and the crush of a crowd were the next things House was aware of. Sarah looked surprised and a little unsettled as she emerged from her sister's enthusiastic embrace.

"I'm so glad you came," Charlie said in that breathy, sweet voice House recognized from a dozen different things. "And I'm so glad you brought a _friend,_" she said, turning to him.

It was like being a prisoner of war, the spotlight was suddenly in his face.

_Name, rank and serial number._

House stuck out his hand to shake. "Greg House," he said, strangely tongue-tied and annoyed with himself for it.

"Oh don't be silly," Charlie said, enveloping him in a hug. He just had time to register the fact that he was bodily pressed up against one of the most desired women in the world – and to think about how awesome it was going to be to tell this story back at work – before she stepped away again and her eyes swept him from top to toe, including cane.

House knew he didn't imagine the look her saw in her cold, glassy green eyes before it was quickly covered by her blank, smiling mask. Dislike. Intense dislike.

When Charlie turned back to Sarah, she narrowed those eyes with an unspoken question, but House didn't know what to make of it.

Then the man with the round glasses whispered in Charlie's ear and, with a beaming smile revealing the whitest teeth he'd ever seen, Charlie blew a kiss to them both and was gone.

Glasses man stayed behind.

"Hi Sarah," he said.

"Hi Miles. Thanks for that." Sarah's voice sounded flat.

"No problem. Charlie wanted to do it."

"Great."

"Just so you know, she has a party to go to afterwards, so that's it."

"I figured."

"It's up to you whether you want to stay for the movie or not."

Sarah shrugged. "We came all this way. Might as well see it."

Miles' lips clenched into a narrow line. "You might regret that decision."

Sarah simply raised her eyebrows.

Then they both broke into smiles.

"See you next time, Sarah," he said.

"See you next time, Miles," she echoed.

"Nice to meet you, Greg." He gave House a nod and turned away.

Then they were alone again with just the cardboard version of Charlie to keep them company. The doors to the cinema had opened and people were making their way inside.

"What the fuck was all that?" House asked eventually.

Sarah sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "That was my sister."

"That was insane."

"Ah-huh."

"And that happens every time you see her?"

Sarah gave him a bright smile. "Oh no. Sometimes it's much worse."

* * *

About thirty minutes into the film House leaned over and whispered in Sarah's ear. "How much are you hating this movie?"

Captain Darcy was monologuing endlessly about space piracy while plucky young space adventurer Elizabeth Bennett made mooneyes at him and pleaded for understanding of her family's desperate situation in an appalling upper-class English accent.

"I want to stick pencils into my eyeballs to make it stop," Sarah whispered back.

"Can we sneak out?"

"Of course not. It's Charlie's big night."

"Shh!" Someone from behind them was getting annoyed by their whispering.

House deliberately raised his voice. "Come on, this movie rivals _Battlefield Earth_ for stupidest film ever."

"Shh!"

Sarah put a hand on his thigh. "Greg! There are cast and crew here, keep your voice down."

He made no attempt to whisper. "Let's get out of here."

In the darkness, he could see her considering him. "Okay, let's go," she said after a moment.

They had to climb over people to get to the aisle, and no one made any secret of their irritation at that fact. House started apologizing extravagantly in a fake English accent, just for the hell of it. "Oh, I'm _awfully_ sorry. Your toes? Please accept my _sincerest_ apologies. Terribly, _terribly_ sorry! I'm so _very sorry_ to have to disturb you from this masterpiece. Please, don't pay us the least bit of attention, not when what is on the screen is so deserving of it."

People in other rows began to turn around to see what was going on, and by the time they walked out the door, he was sure half the theatre had decided that watching two people deliberately leave a premiere was far more interesting than the film itself.

Sarah's face was flushed as they headed outside. The rain had stopped, but the sidewalk was filled with muddy puddles and the traffic splashed water as it went.

"I can't believe you just made me walk out of my sister's movie premiere."

"Are you mad or amused?" House asked, not sure what to make of her expression.

"A little of both," she confessed.

"I was going for amused."

"I know."

"She doesn't deserve your . . ." He paused, not sure what he was going to say. _Loyalty?_ _Time? Effort? _"She doesn't deserve you," he said simply, in the end.


	15. Chapter 15

"Now what?" Sarah asked once they were out on the street. A few fans still hung around, hoping to catch a glimpse of stars on their way out of the theatre.

It really had been an appalling movie, one of Charlie's worst ever. Sarah felt an uncharacteristic wave of schadenfreude – this was, after all, the movie Charlie had been shooting when Sarah had been injured. It somehow seemed fair that the movie was a stinker. She wondered if her sister might even be up for Razzie.

But Sarah's predominant feeling was one of relief. She'd been more nervous than she'd cared to admit about how things with Charlie would go. Having their first meeting, since the Philadelphia fiasco and Charlie's LA incident, over and done with – and relatively smoothly at that – was a weight off her shoulders. Clearly that was all behind them – Sarah understood that Charlie's hug was declaration of an unspoken truce. Now she only had to worry about why her sister seemed to have taken an instant dislike to Greg. And hope that she didn't find out that they'd left early.

Of course she still didn't know what Greg _really_ thought of her gorgeous sister. Did he – like most of the men she'd encountered in her life – think he'd ended up with the more disappointing side of the Hardiman family?

Sarah pushed the thoughts away. For now, she didn't want to think about it. "We could call the driver and see if he'll pick us up now," she suggested.

"Or we could enjoy the next hour or so in New York," Greg said, "and then meet him as we planned."

Sarah shrugged. "I don't really feel like sitting in a bar again."

"How's your back?"

Sarah gave an experimental stretch. "Better, actually," she said, surprised. "I don't know why."

"My leg's okay for now too. Let's walk for a while and see what we find. If we stay within a few blocks of where he's picking us up, we can always call if we get sick of walking."

"Okay."

They turned away from Times Square and headed uptown, slowly leaving the souvenir t-shirt and camera and luggage stores behind them. The number of pedestrians on the sidewalk thinned out and now that the rain had stopped, it was almost a pleasant evening. There was still a chill in the air, though, and Sarah pulled the pashmina she'd brought with her instead of a coat closer around her shoulders.

"Pity we don't have enough time to catch a show instead. There's a few plays on that I'd like to see," she said as they walked along.

Greg made a noncommittal noise that told her that in the future she should probably plan to see any plays by herself. She smiled. This was nice. Having him by her side as Charlie's entourage had borne down upon them had given Sarah a measure of comfort, a confidence she usually didn't feel. She was about to turn to him, to tell him how grateful he was for giving her this day, for making her call in sick, when he grabbed her hand.

"Come with me," he said mischievously, tugging on her arm and leading her into a darker alley that lead off the main street they were walking along.

"Greg? Are you sure . . . ?" Sarah knew New York wasn't quite the muggers' paradise it had once been, but in her experience, dark alleyways in any city were best avoided.

He was taking long strides and Sarah had to skip a couple of steps to catch up. "Where are we . . ." She trailed off as their destination became obvious.

Neon signs reflected bolts of primary colors off the puddles on the pavement.

"Oh." Sarah stopped, pulling on his hand to stop him from dragging her after him.

"Come on, it'll be fun," he wheedled.

"I don't think so. I've never . . ." Sarah struggled to verbalize her objection. _Peep shows! Adult toys! XXX Movies!_ Her stomach flipped over, but with fear or a strange anticipation she wasn't sure.

"Sarah, it's just a store. If we walk in and you don't like it, we'll leave."

Sarah hesitated. She wanted to be cool and sophisticated, but wasn't sure if she could manage it. "Promise?"

He held up three fingers in a boy-scout salute. "Promise."

She let him lead her again, following behind reluctantly. He held aside the beaded curtain that hung over the doorway and pulled her inside after him.

The first thing Sarah was struck by was the smell – a sickly, overpowering incense that seemed to creep its way inside her and stick to the lining of her throat. The next thing she noticed was the bright, florescent lighting, designed to make the patrons of the store even more unattractive than they already were – if that was possible. There were only three of them that she could see, an older man who reminded her of her sleazy high school science teacher, Mr Anderson, and two younger guys who were studiously reviewing the DVD shelves.

As a woman, and wearing a revealing evening dress, Sarah felt incredibly conspicuous. She held her shawl tighter and shrunk behind Greg, glad for his height and bulk as an effective shield.

He leaned back and whispered to her, "What do you want to look at first?"

Sarah shrugged mutely. She wished she were one of those women who could be bold in a situation like this, but she felt incredibly uncomfortable. Curious, but uncomfortable.

Greg moved away from her, heading towards a shelf of novelty items, perhaps, Sarah thought, thinking that would be a way to ease her in to the whole thing. She followed him as closely as his shadow.

"Wilson would like this," Greg said, holding up a shiny chrome penis-shaped desk toy with balls that swung as pendulums beneath. "He could use it for his testicular cancer patients."

Sarah giggled. Greg set the balls swinging, bouncing against each other with a hollow, cheap-sounding clang.

A display of costumes caught her eye. Feeling a little braver, she left Greg's side and walked over to the shelves where she picked out a naughty nurse outfit. It included white fishnet stockings, a miniscule dress that would make a cheerleader blush, frilly white panties, and an old-fashioned cap with a red cross on it. The plastic stethoscope was apparently an optional extra.

Greg brushed past her, whispering, "Too clichéd." He reached for a different package and handed it to her as he continued on to the DVD display.

"_That_ was too clichéd?" Sarah echoed in disbelief as she looked at the pack he'd handed her: naughty schoolgirl. A tiny green plaid skirt, more frilly white panties, tight white shirt that tied in the middle leaving the midriff bare, a short plaid tie and black fishnet stockings. The woman in the picture had her hair tied in two bunches. Sarah tried to picture herself wearing it. _Maybe._

She realized Greg had gone over to the guy behind the counter and had handed over money. The guy said something under his breath and Greg nodded seriously before he turned back to Sarah and took her hand. "Come on."

He led her towards the back of the store where a line of doors waited for them. Sarah hung back. "No, I don't want to see a peep show," she said, planting her feet. She kept her voice down, but there was no doubting her steely tone. "I wouldn't like it. I'd spend the whole time wondering about the woman, if she was doing it by choice, if she was on drugs, whether her family knew—"

Greg shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Geez. Over-think things much? But you don't have to worry, it's not a peep show booth."

"Then what?"

"Just come on."

He opened a door and hassled her inside. The smell of incense mingled with a strong disinfectant, and it was almost overpowering once the door closed behind them. When Sarah thought about what must usually happen inside a booth like this she figured maybe she should just be grateful for that. Still, she made an effort to try not to _touch_ anything.

It was a tight fit for the both of them, and after a bit of shuffling he ended up sitting on the lone plastic chair while Sarah perched on his lap, uncomfortably conscious of not putting her weight onto his bad leg.

"What did the guy behind the counter say to you?" Sarah asked.

"He said that if we planned to have sex in here, we should keep it down unless we were okay with keeping the whole store entertained."

She pulled a face. "Ew."

He chuckled.

"So what . . . ?" She gestured around them. She had a pretty clear idea of what it was all about. The only other items in the tiny booth apart from the chair were a screen in front of them and box of Kleenex on the floor. A sign on the wall encouraged them to think of the next user when leaving. The very idea made her shudder.

Sarah shuffled on his lap, trying to get more comfortable, feeling it was a fairly futile attempt. "Greg!" she exclaimed with a loud whisper when her thigh encountered the bulge in his jeans.

"Hey, don't blame me. Just about everything in this store is designed to give a male an erection."

Not to mention that they'd just come from meeting her sister – a woman that made most men drool just by looking their way. And she'd _hugged_ Greg.

Before Sarah could say anything further, the screen flickered to life. From the first moment it was clear this wasn't going to be one of those porn movies that bothered with little things like plot. Or proper lighting. Or even focus.

"It's called _Tying Up Tess_," Greg whispered in her ear.

"Sounds edifying," Sarah said drily.

"I tried to find a science fiction one, but there weren't any on the playlist. Besides I figured we'd already got our fill of substandard sci fi guff tonight."

She gave him a light slap on the arm. "Uncalled for."

On the screen an eager-looking woman was being tied face-down to something that looked like a gym bench by a naked man with limp erection. Another man stroked her body with a suede flogger.

"Oh." Suddenly Sarah realized what was going to happen. She bit her bottom lip and watched in fascinated horror as the woman was tied up, caressed, then flogged. Her cries seemed to be of genuine pleasure, but Sarah guessed there was really no way of knowing. At least if she _was_ just acting, she was a reasonably good actress – she looked convincingly excited by what the men were doing to her.

There was nothing remotely arousing about it at all. The sexiest thing about the whole situation was sitting so close to Greg, feeling his hardness against her leg, his woodsy scent faint but detectable under the cloying disinfectant. His hand gently stroked her inner arm.

As the scene progressed, the flogger was abandoned and the sex began. Ridiculously uncomfortable positions and unnecessarily close-up camera angles, Sarah thought. She detected a change in Greg's breathing, it came slower, heavier.

"Do you want to . . ." she asked, not sure how to phrase things. There was no way she was having sex in this disgusting little cubicle, but she guessed she could help him out if he wanted it.

"No."

"Sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

Sarah was relieved.

The scene changed again – they didn't seem to stick with any one position for longer than thirty seconds. No wonder no one had come yet. The men began to order the woman around, not shouting at her, not insulting her, just commanding her to pose a certain way, to touch them in a particular manner. When she didn't obey, they spanked her. Even with the poor sound quality of the film, their voices were deep and firm and authoritative. The woman in the movie was at their command.

Sarah's breath caught. Now it was turning her on. Her body finally responded the way she figured it was meant to in this kind of environment. Heat built between her legs and she felt that delicious ache begin to grow deep in her belly.

Then the two men ejaculated all over the woman's breasts and the screen flickered and went black.

A message appeared a moment later. _If you provided a credit card to the clerk, press the button at the bottom of the screen to extend your session. _

"Well . . ." Sarah said. She wriggled, teasing herself with the brush of her thighs against each other.

"Don't do that," Greg said rather breathlessly.

"Did you give the guy a credit card?"

"No, just enough cash for one session." He met her eyes, one eyebrow raised. "You want to go again? I didn't think you were enjoying it."

"I wasn't. Not really."

"Hmm."

"Not until—" Sarah broke off, not sure if she was ready to make the admission.

"Yeah." He nodded. "Up you get." He nudged her and Sarah got to her feet, awkwardly shifting against the wall to give him space. He groaned a little as he stood, muttering under his breath.

"What?" Sarah missed it.

"I said next time get a limo with a privacy screen. It's gonna be a long trip home."

She smirked. "Yeah. Okay."

Then he was pressed against her, his hands flat on the wall either side of her face, trapping her. His hips ground into her belly. "Kiss me," he said, using the same commanding tone of voice the guys on the movie had used.

A bolt zinged through her body, touching every nerve from toes to eyelashes and a gush of moisture dampened her panties. It was all she could do to simply lean forward, open her mouth and accept his hot, wet, kiss. He explored her mouth, his tongue stroking hers, caressing all her most sensitive recesses until she could barely stand.

With a muttered expletive, he pulled away, breathing hard.

"And that's not gonna help at all," he muttered again, grabbing for the door and leaving Sarah blinking in the harsh light that streamed in after him.

It took a moment for her to gather herself together and emerge from the booth.

The Mr-Anderson-lookalike was still in the store and he gave her a long, luridly assessing look that made an unpleasant shiver crawl down her spine and the heat already in her cheeks burn more hotly. She searched for Greg and found him at the counter. The clerk was putting items in a bag as Greg handed over a credit card. She wasn't sure she wanted to know about the purchases – although it could just be the prank gift for his friend the oncologist, she reminded herself hopefully – but she also didn't want to hang around as the object of Mr Anderson's fantasies either.

She headed for the door, noisily pulling aside the bead curtain. Greg looked over and gave her a short nod to indicate he was almost finished and Sarah disappeared outside into the cold, dark evening, a unexpected little thrill thrumming in her belly at the new experience she'd just had and the realization it had given her.

* * *

As House had predicted, it was a long drive home. Time-wise it was actually shorter than the trip there had been – less traffic, better weather made for a faster drive. But sitting for that whole time with a persistent boner that just wouldn't go away made every minute frustratingly elongated. House wondered if he was being paranoid, but he was sure the driver knew it too – each time he reached to touch Sarah or imagined some way of gaining relief in the backseat of the car, he met the driver's icy stare in the rear vision mirror, effectively putting a dampener on his plans. Not that he cared about the driver's sensibilities, he just wasn't all that keen on letting him share.

When they finally reached Baker Street it was all he could manage to do to pull a few notes from his wallet, throw them at the driver and pull Sarah inside. As he was putting his key into his door, Sarah cleared her throat behind him.

"Um, Greg, I can go upstairs to sleep tonight, if you want. It's been a great day and—"

"The hell you will," he growled, throwing open his door and dragging her inside. She liked caveman? He could do caveman.

He pushed her against the wall and grabbed her hand, pressing the flat of her palm against the swell of his cock. Then he kissed her, like he had back in that damned little cubicle, hard and searching, groaning low in his throat when she opened to him, responded to him.

He kissed down the side of her neck, nipping at her skin as his hands swept down the sides of her body, searching for a zipper or the hem of her dress, hoping it was one of those ones he could just pull over her head and be rid of.

Sarah kissed his cheek, his ear, her could feel her fingers on his face, stroking his beard, his jaw. The hand on his suit pants pressed firmly, rubbing slowly up and down, driving him crazy. He wasn't going to last and he didn't care. He just needed to be inside her, right away.

"Greg," she said in a low voice. "This is gonna sound weird, but . . . I'm _Sarah_. I want you . . . I _need_ you to be clear about that."

_She was going to bring up the Cuddy thing now?_ House winced. Lisa Cuddy hadn't been in his mind once all day. She'd barely even popped into his the past couple of days – just that once last night when he'd been sure to say Sarah's name, to make sure she knew_ he knew_ who he was with.

The knowledge Cuddy had become an afterthought came as a surprise. He'd spent so long yearning for what he couldn't have. It was something he needed to sit back and think about.

Another time.

"I'm not Charlie." Her voice was barely a breath.

House pulled away from her. "_Charlie?_" he said, his breath coming in pants.

She was flushed, her mouth red and swollen from his kiss, her pupils dilated. But the look of sadness, of deep hurt on her face was enough to temper his furious arousal for a moment.

"Why would I think you were Charlie? Why would I want to?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"Because everyone does," she said simply.

Suddenly House saw the pattern of repeated behavior echoing back over the years of Sarah's life. Her sister had been super-model beautiful, then a movie-star celebrity since Sarah had been a teen. It was almost certain that people had befriended Sarah to try to get close to Charlie. It didn't take a huge leap of logic to see that it wouldn't be impossible for some men to figure that sleeping with Sarah was either a stepping stone to Charlie, or some kind of substitute.

Having him, House, pretend Sarah was someone else – even if it had been Cuddy, not her sister – wasn't new for her.

The guilt of it struck him all over again. He yearned to say something comforting, to find just the right words that would heal all those years of hurt. If only there was a pill he could prescribe instead, a treatment. Dialysis for the soul.

"Sarah, I'm crap at talking about this kind of thing," he said, knowing he'd paused for too long, that she'd already reached her damning conclusions. His cock twitched against his suit pants, as if reminding him that it was absolutely crucial that he manage some kind of diplomacy at this point.

"It's okay," she said. She pressed the flat of her palm against his cheek and gave him that understanding, whipped puppy look that killed him.

He remembered what she'd accidentally revealed about her family on the street before the movie too. The abusive alcoholic mother and disappearing daddy. He needed to know more. "It's not fucking okay," he said. He shrugged off his coat and suit jacket and left them on the floor, limping up the hall to the bedroom, pulling her behind him. He'd thought about sitting on the sofa, but screw it, if they were going to have a deep and meaningful conversation right now, there'd better damn well be some sex at the end of it.

In the bedroom he sat on the bed to untie his shoes, pulling them off and them shuffling up to sit leaning against the pillows. He patted the space next to him. "Come here," he said.

Sarah slipped out of her heels and took off the shawl thing she was wearing over her dress. She crawled up onto the bed and sat next to him.

Her dress rose up her thighs as she made herself comfortable.

"Christ," he swore softly. "You've been wearing those all night?"

The silky nylons on her legs ended in a wide strip of lace, above which an inch or so of creamy thigh was on show.

_What was it they'd come in here to talk about again?_

She smiled. "I thought they were pretty obvious when we were in the booth, but it must have been too dark."

Probably just as well, House thought silently. Or he would have taken her there, damn the squalidness of it all. He undid the tie that he'd loosened in the car, stripping it out through his collar and opening the top few buttons of his shirt. At least he could breathe again.

"Just having you sit on my lap was enough," he admitted. "I almost had to reach for the Kleenex."

Sarah pulled a face.

He couldn't help but grin. "TMI?"

She shook her head, smiling shyly. "I think next time we're in New York, I can go see a play and you can go . . . do whatever you want to do."

_Next time. _Good. "Porn not your thing?"

She shrugged. "It didn't do much for me."

"Maybe we just didn't find the right one. You, uh, perked up towards the end." He said, waggling his eyebrows for emphasis. "I could tell. My hand was on your wrist – I could feel your pulse."

A blush rose up her neck and pinked her cheeks.

"Sarah, you don't have to be embarrassed. Whatever gets you hot. If you want me to spank you, I'm happy to do it." He grinned. "In fact, if you want to shift over right now and bare your ass, I wouldn't object in the least." So much for the deep and meaningful exploration of her relationship with her sister and discovery of her murky past. But then, this was so much more fun.

She shook her head. "It's not the spanking. It's not about . . . pain."

"Tell me."

"I guess . . ." She curled up her legs underneath her, displaying all of the lace that wrapped around her thighs. House told himself to concentrate.

"It's about . . . _control_," she said eventually. "And giving it to someone else for a while."

House was no therapist but he thought he understood. From what little he knew, she'd been the one in charge of her family since she'd been a child. And now, sexually, she wanted someone else to make the decisions for her. To have the authority figure ordering her around that had been missing for most of her life. It wasn't that unusual to have childhood patterns play out in adult sexuality. Hell, perhaps his own upbringing explained his comfort with being the one _giving_ the orders – something he'd not been allowed to do under his father's roof where the colonel's word was law.

"You want one part of your life where you're not the boss," House said.

"Exactly." Sarah sighed with relief that he seemed to get it. "It's not about pain, although accepting it, if that's what you want to do to me, is kind of part of it. Giving myself up to you, and to whatever you might do, turns me on. Like on my floor that time. I could have stopped you – I know you would have stopped if I'd asked – but pretending I had no control was, well, it was hot." She gave him a sideways look, as if to check he wasn't horrified by the admission. Whatever she saw there must have reassured her, because she kept talking.

"Really, though," she continued, "I prefer it when you don't actually hurt me. Unless, maybe, it's something we agree on first," she added hesitantly.

He nodded. Nothing she'd said had surprised him. Or shocked him. Or made him want to do anything else other than continue the games they'd been playing. Perhaps take them up a notch. The purchases he'd made at the store would come in handy for that – just not tonight.

She put a hand to his face, her thumb stroking his mouth. "I don't want it like that every time, though. Last night was . . . I really liked last night," she finished quietly.

He leaned into her and pressed a kiss to her neck and whispered against her skin, "I really liked last night too."

It was time for Freud and Jung and all that psychobabble bullshit to go back in the closet. Whatever the reasons, he knew what Sarah liked sexually and he was happy to provide it. Nothing else really mattered. He gave into temptation and let his fingers trail up one leg, over the silky stockings, across the fine texture of the lace to the velvety skin of her thigh. She sighed a little noise of pleasure at the contact.

The sound ripped at his fragile control and a moment later their mouths had meshed again and he was once more searching for the zipper of her dress. Her hands worked the buttons of his shirt and, once they were undone, moved to open his trousers.

"Oh God, Sarah," he said as her cool fingers searched inside his boxers and grasped his cock. It was too much. The dress would just have to stay on. He raked it up over her hips, revealing a black lacy thong. Another time, he'd have savored the fancy lingerie, but right now it was simply in his way. A barrier quickly stripped down her legs and off.

Blood pounded in his ears, which was surprising because he was pretty sure all the blood in his body had converged somewhere well south of his head.

And then he was inside her. Finally. After what had felt like years of foreplay. He sank into her wet heat and a shudder went through his entire body. Too good. It was far, far too good.

"Yes," Sarah moaned beneath him. Her hands were inside his open shirt, fingernails scraping against his chest and back as her hips rose to meet him. They moved together, picking up the pace almost immediately, pushing into each other again and again in a slippery, heated rush.

He knew he'd be too fast for her. In desperation, he shoved a hand between them, silently recounting the alphabet backwards – the Hindi alphabet – as he manipulated her clit and hoped she might be somewhere near his level of explosiveness.

He thanked Ganesha and every other god he could think of as he felt her respond.

"Greg!" Sarah's back arched and her body convulsed around him. All conscious thought flew away as he shuddered and cried out, pumping his release into her, his vision going black.

He collapsed next to her, both of them breathing hard.

As they lay on the bed, clothing messed, Sarah turned on her side and slipped a hand over his belly and up to his chest, resting it over his heart.

Sleep pulled at him, but something gnawed at the edge of his consciousness, not letting him slip into that comforting haze.

Then he realized they hadn't talked about Charlie or Sarah's family at all. Perhaps it was just as well. It would likely have ruined the mood, and that had been some nicely intense – if quick – sex.

House recalled his brief meeting with the famous Charlotte Hardiman. She was a beautiful woman, that was certain. Those green eyes were stunning – like cat's eyes, and just as calculating. Her golden skin was perfect, completely flawless. Somehow the effect was chilling, like a robot that was just a little too human. He imagined that making love to Charlotte Hardiman would be like fucking a porcelain doll.

Now didn't seem the time to tell Sarah that he thought her sister was about as attractive as a nasty case of athlete's foot. Charlotte may have won the genetic lottery as far as looks went, but Sarah had won the race for compassion, grace and humanity by a hundred yards.

As for the hardship she'd had as a child? House was definitely going to spend some time with Google to find out more. There was no doubt in his mind that Charlotte would have spilled her guts to more than a few journalists over the years. That was easier than actually having to talk about it with Sarah – and it saved him from the possibility that it might prompt her to ask about his own childhood.

And if Sarah wanted him to give her a respite from the pressures of her life while they were in bed, by taking control of her every now and then, he was more than happy to provide it.

* * *

A few hours later Sarah woke up with a groan, already on the precipice of orgasm. A hot, talented tongue was flicking at her core, and the lingering threads of sleep made it seem like a dream. Fingers plunged inside her, curling and stroking, and a moment later she came, a whimpering gasp, a shudder and then chills all over her skin.

He kissed a path back up her body – over yet another ruined evening dress, she sleepily noted – until he kissed her face, her eyelids, her chin, then one light kiss on her mouth.

"Hold me," she whispered, "I'm cold."

He pulled the quilt around them and took her into his arms, wrapping his legs around her too, so she was surrounded by him.

Lying there, sleepy, post-orgasm, warm, cuddled by his body, Sarah felt like maybe she'd found heaven. It couldn't be real. It felt like . . . like _love_.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: **Thanks again everyone for your reviews - I just love hearing from you. I'm going to be away for a couple of days, so the next update won't be until Monday. Sorry this is a relatively short chapter, but there'll be a nice long angsty one for you all when I return...

* * *

Sarah wasn't sure how long she'd slept for, but weak sunlight filtered into the room. Rain pattered against the windows. The man lying next to her snored deeply, head thrown back, mouth open. It wasn't an attractive look.

But it made her smile.

And then her stomach flipped. She shivered as knowledge settled over her, tangible as a blanket.

_She was in love with him_.

Why else would she look at his snoring, sleep-slackened face and smile?

When had that happened?

She got out of bed and hunted for a robe, finding a blue-and-white striped cotton one in the closet. She took off her dress and stockings, grimacing at the red marks on her thighs from the stay-ups. It probably hadn't been so good for her circulation to sleep in them.

It didn't take long to put the coffee on – not when she already knew where everything was kept in the kitchen. Not when she'd made coffee a dozen times for Alvie. She shook her head remembering, recounting the path she'd taken over the past couple of months. A friendship with Alvie, an encounter with an addict on the bathroom floor. Then their desperate connection – both of them as lonely as the other. And now?

The knowledge she loved him was like a fresh bruise in her brain. She didn't want to prod it just yet.

Greg had left his coat and suit jacket on the floor near the door. He was still wearing his shirt, albeit unbuttoned, in bed. She'd noticed as she'd got out of bed and pulled the covers back over him that somewhere along the way he'd stripped off his trousers and socks.

She made two cups of coffee and carried them back to the bedroom, leaving them on the bedside table next to him. Greg wasn't snoring any longer, but he still seemed to be asleep. She went back out to the living room and grabbed his coat, hanging it on a peg near the door, then picked up his suit jacket to take it back into the bedroom.

"Morning," a gruff voice greeted her as she entered the room, and she looked up from smoothing out the creases in the expensive suit.

He was looking at her with just one eye open, a sleepy smile curving his mouth.

"Morning," she said, unable to help what she was sure was a goofy grin from spreading across her face.

"Thanks for the coffee," he said, blinking and yawning.

"Welcome."

For some reason, maybe the whole _love_ thing, Sarah felt suddenly embarrassed. She looked away, concentrating on his jacket, unnecessarily smoothing it out when clearly nothing less than a dry-cleaner's press was going to help. She grabbed a hanger from the closet and shook out the jacket to hang it.

A rattle, then a plastic clunk, and an orange pill bottle rolled away from her foot to come to rest at the bottom of the bed.

_Crap._

_You're in love with an addict, Sarah,_ she reminded herself.

In bed, Greg sucked in a breath and let it out in a rush. He sat up, propping himself against the pillows and grabbed the coffee she'd left on the nightstand.

Sarah hung the jacket, moving slowly, then bent to pick up the bottle. Once it was in her hand, she had no idea what to do with it. She thought about putting it on the dresser with quiet acceptance, like she had the other night. But something inside her railed against that idea. She wanted to run into the bathroom and flush the whole thing, make it disappear, pretend it had never happened.

She did neither of those things. Instead, she sat down on the end of the bed, near his feet, curling up her legs under her. The bottle of pills she put down on the bed beside him.

His eyes flashed, as if waiting for her to challenge him. When she didn't say anything, he waved a hand dismissively at the bottle. "There are still eight. Count them if you don't believe me."

"I believe you."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

Sarah swallowed hard. "Will you promise to tell me the truth if I ask you a question?"

His eyes flicked around the room and for a while she wondered if he was going to answer. Or if he was going to attack. That seemed to be his default defense mechanism.

"Depends on the question," he said eventually.

"Was this time – after the stress of the smallpox patient – the only time you've taken Vicodin since Mayfield?"

He hesitated, but his eyes met hers when he answered. "Yes."

Sarah wasn't sure whether to believe him or not, but none of this would work if she didn't take him at his word – as fragile as that trust was going to be.

"Okay. Here's how this is going to work. You slipped up once. For understandable reasons. It doesn't mean you have to start all over again."

A haunted look crossed his face, and Sarah was sure he was remembering Mayfield. She'd worked with more than her fair share of detoxing junkies in her time in psych wards and she knew it was agonizing and without dignity for all of them. But especially for a proud, intelligent, sensitive man . . . Her stomach twisted just thinking about it.

"I'm going to take these pills and hang on to them," she continued. "If another situation comes up – one like quarantine – where you think you need to take a pill, you call me and I'll give you one."

"You'll _give_ me one?" he echoed, voice dripping with disbelief.

"If there's no other way we can solve the situation, if there's nothing else I can do to make you feel better, then yes, I'll give you one."

"What you think you can fuck me out of a craving?"

She refused to cower to his nasty tone. "Not just that."

"Look honey, as hot as it is to slap you around and have you do my bidding, when I need drugs, all the handcuffs and spanking benches in the world aren't going to be of any use."

Sarah winced. It hurt that he'd used her confession against her. But then she probably should have expected it. She was attacking him at his site of greatest vulnerability. It made sense that he'd make a counter attack against one of hers.

There was silence for a while and then his shoulders slumped against the pillows. "Okay," he said quietly.

Sarah nodded. "Okay." She crawled up the bed, coming to lie alongside his body. He stretched out an arm to let her curl in next to him.

The orange bottle still lay at the bottom of the bed.

"You're thinking about how to get more, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yep." He didn't sound happy about it.

"Come up with all the plans you can think of, but don't actually go through with them. Let's give this a try and see if it works. If it doesn't then we'll think of something else."

"I can't promise anything."

"I know."

"And you're okay with that?"

"I don't really have a choice."

"Of course you do. Walk out of here right now." Even as he spoke his arm tightened around her, as if he was afraid she might do exactly that.

"I can't. I think I've done something stupid."

"What?"

"I think I fell in love with you."

He was silent for a long time. "Oh," he said eventually.

Strangely, Sarah didn't feel devastated that he hadn't replied with a profession of his own love. It actually felt like a relief to have admitted it aloud. Now it was his decision what to do with the information.

She pulled away from his embrace. "I'm gonna go upstairs and shower and get dressed. I've got things to do today, grocery shopping, stuff like that."

She busied herself finding her belongings that were scattered around the room. Including the pill bottle from the bed. "Do you mind if I borrow the bathrobe? Hopefully I won't run into anyone on the stairs. I can't face pulling on my dress again."

Aware she was babbling, she made herself shut up.

"No problem," he said.

She made herself walk over to the bed and kiss him, an easy, quick peck between lovers. The smell of the bed, of sex, his body, her own arousal, tempted her like opium smoke.

"See you later," he said.

"See you later," she said, heading for the door. She was determined to walk out as if it was no big deal that she'd just taken his stash of drugs. As if it was no big deal that she'd fallen in love with him. She quashed the need to run back and ask, _When? When later?_

* * *

Later, as it turned out, was a couple of hours.

He knocked on her door.

When she opened it, his face was a mask of tragedy, his bottom lip pouting and quivering.

"God, what happened?" Sarah asked, her stomach knotting.

"I need my pills," he said.

_No_. Not yet. She wasn't ready for this yet. She opened the door wider, letting him in, closing it behind him with a sense of doom.

"Either that or sex." His bottom lip quivered exaggeratedly; he batted his eyelashes at her. Too late she saw the amusement in his eyes. "Actually maybe just sex."

"Greg!" She slapped his arm, feeling almost faint from the adrenaline that had surged through her system and was not, after all, required.

"Too much?" he said, skipping away from her, taunting her.

"Too soon," she bit back, rubbing her temples. "You've given me a headache." It had been growing for the past hour or so, but his trick had driven it into overdrive.

"Let's go out then," he said.

"Where?"

"I dunno. Fresh air for your head. So that then you can give _me_ some head."

"Huh?"

"It's only fair. You fell asleep again before you could return the favor last night."

Sarah screwed up her eyes, trying to pull together fragments of memory. "Did that really happen? I thought it was a dream."

"I know I have mad skillz," he pronounced the Z, "but I assure you it was for real."

"I have things to do today," she said, hesitating. The idea of spending another day with him was so tempting it had to be wrong. Besides, she really did have jobs to do.

"So do them. I'll just tag along."

She frowned. "You want to come grocery shopping with me?"

"Sure. And then I get a blow job."

She ignored him. "I have to pick up my dry cleaning. And go to the hardware store. And hassle the super about my fireplace not working. And pick up a birthday card for someone at work."

Greg checked off her list on his fingers as she recited it. "And then give me a blow job," he added with relish, checking off that one last item.

Sarah rolled her eyes, bowing to the inevitable. "And then give you a blow job."

He grinned. "Awesome. Come on, let's get going."

They spent almost the whole day driving around doing odd jobs. Going into stores, buying stuff she needed as well as some stuff she didn't. It was the best, most enjoyable Saturday Sarah could remember in . . . forever. He was right – the fresh air cleared her headache. And when they got back to her place, once she'd unpacked the groceries into the fridge, she heard him call out to her from the bedroom. He used his authoritative tone, one that no doubt had his minions at the hospital jumping to comply. It worked on her too. She hurried to obey, relishing the wave of arousal that washed over her as he made her submit to his command.

* * *

House woke up with a headache on Sunday morning. Sarah – whether through personal taste or budget restrictions – had only cheap red wine in her cupboard and he hadn't been bothered to go downstairs and collect a better one from his own collection. This morning he wished he had.

The faint whoosh of nausea in his stomach and his pounding head made him regret the day some monk somewhere had thought _how about we put this grape juice in this barrel and see what happens?_

"Sarah?" He nudged the sleeping woman next to him. She made cute, sleepy protest noises and snuggled deeper into her pillow. He smiled.

She loved him.

At least she thought she did.

Poor sucker. He almost felt sorry for her. She might not think she was into pain, but at least some part of her must be.

"Sarah? Do you have any Tylenol? Your cheap-ass wine gave me a hangover."

She mumbled something.

He poked her belly with a finger. "Notice, please, how I am asking nicely for acetaminophen? You might want to take note for some time in the future when I ask not-so-nicely for hydrocodone."

Sarah groaned and lifted her head from the pillow, blinking blearily at him. "How much wine did we drink?"

"A couple of bottles." Not that much, in House's estimation. And he'd had most of it. "I will make the sacrifice of getting out of bed to make coffee and get us headache pills. Where are they? Bathroom?"

Sarah groaned again. "Another job I was meant to do yesterday. Go to the drug store."

"You don't have any?"

"Nope."

"Right, we are changing venues. Right now."

House climbed out of Sarah's bed and pulled on his jeans and t-shirt, not bothering with underwear. Since Sarah hadn't moved, he rolled her up in the sheet and quilt, wrapping them around her until she looked like a puffy sausage with just her head and feet sticking out each end. He fastened his belt around her middle to keep it all in place.

"What are you doing?" she asked archly.

Since he couldn't carry her, certainly not down the stairs, anyway, he pushed and pulled on her until she was standing. "You're coming with me."

"Where?"

"To my apartment. Where there is Tylenol. And more red wine, if that doesn't work."

She made a retching face at the very idea. "Ugh."

Out in the hallway, Sarah swayed alarmingly at the top of the stairs and House only just caught her and pulled her back. She only then seemed to realize that she was standing outside her apartment, naked, wrapped in a quilt.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asked.

"Too late now," he said. He bent down and loosened the sheet around her ankles. "There, is that better?"

"Better for what?"

"Walking down the stairs, silly. Come on."

He thought she was going to protest – in fact he kind of wanted her to, because this was a pretty stupid idea – but she didn't and she made it all the way to the bottom safely, stopping once halfway down when she was overcome with a fit of giggles.

In the hallway as he fitted his key to his door, the front door of the building opened with a gush of cold air.

"Hello Mrs Beddingfield," Sarah said politely.

House turned around to find a grey-haired woman staring at him, alarm painted across her face. "Doctor House?" she asked archly.

"Just helping out a neighbor," he said, wondering how she knew his name. He leaned over to the woman and in a confessional whisper said, "We only wrap her up like this when she's a danger to herself." He nodded in Sarah's direction and tutted sadly. "Such a shame when young people go off the rails this way."

Clearly Mrs Beddingfield, whoever she was, wasn't falling for it.

The old lady gave Sarah a searching look. "Are you all right Sarah?" she asked.

Sarah blushed. "I'm fine. It's just a . . . game."

Mrs Beddingfield flashed a dirty glance at House, before giving Sarah a concerned look. "All right, dear, but be careful, won't you? Games like that can be dangerous."

"Yes, Mrs Beddingfield. Thanks."

Finally House had the door open. He hustled Sarah inside, closing the door behind them, Mrs Beddingfield staring at him the whole time as if she were still undecided about calling the police.

"That woman could freeze lakes with those eyes," he said once the door was shut.

"She's a very nice lady, actually," Sarah said. Her serious tone when she looked like the star of _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ was enough to make House chuckle.

"Come here my little sausage," he said. He put his arms around her bulk and stretched his neck to kiss her.

"I'm not a sausage," Sarah protested when he broke the kiss.

"No?"

She began her shuffling waddle towards the bedroom. "I'm a present."

"A present? For me?" House swooned dramatically. To no effect, because she had her back to him and couldn't see.

"Maybe for you," Sarah called over her shoulder to him, disappearing up the hallway. "Get me some Tylenol and I'll let you unwrap me."


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **Thanks so much everyone for the comments - and sorry for lack of responses this time around. Re this chapter, just so you know, I have messed with the timeframes in Season 7 to pick out events that suit my plot. So I've skipped ahead since the last canon patient we saw and I've completely ignored Cuddy's mom.

* * *

After spending Friday and the weekend with Sarah, House felt positive about going into work on Monday for the first time in a long time. It didn't last. His team picked up a patient on his service, a teenage boy coughing up blood for no apparent reason. A boring patient and a boring case. He was letting the minions do most of the work – as he had been for some time now. Since Hanna. Even more since his confinement in quarantine; those hours spent doubting his every decision.

But with a routine day ahead, it had finally given him time to do the consultation with Google that he'd wanted to undertake for so long.

A search for Charlotte Hardiman produced no less than one-hundred-sixteen-_million_ results. Just typing in her name, Google made several interesting predictions as to what he might be searching for. The top one, somewhat surreally, was "Charlotte Hardiman hot".

After resisting temptation to click on various links that promised nude pictures and naked clips, he found a Vanity Fair article that seemed to contain the most detail about her life.

It was a long and interesting read. Interesting only because of the insight it gave him into Sarah – nothing at all to do with Charlie. Charlotte Hardiman was a vain, self-centered, spoiled and arrogant bitch. He hoped to never meet her again, if only because he wasn't sure if he'd be able to hold his tongue. Even the journalist reporting the story seemed to have taken a dislike to her subject, including in her article some subtle and not-so-subtle snippets about Charlotte's behavior during their interview that revealed her character – turning up late, insisting on a different chair before they could begin, refusing to talk because she objected to the journalist's perfume.

When he finally got to the paragraphs about her family upbringing House was thoroughly sick of her diva antics.

_Hardiman's revolving-door romance life she blames in part on a father who deserted their family when she was just six years old, _House read.

"_My sister took the blame, but I know why he left. He couldn't handle me. I was a . . . shall we say, 'spirited' child, and it put a lot of pressure on my parents' marriage."_

_Hardiman makes veiled references to abuse from her father but when pressed refuses to elaborate. When questioned on the subject again later, she insists I have invented the quotes I wrote in my notes and says her father was a kind man, and although he favored her older sister, Sarah, she remembers him buying her special gifts and taking her horse riding. _

_But it is her mother that perhaps reveals most about the star's formative years. A long-term and occasionally violent alcoholic, June Hardiman died when Charlotte was thirteen, just months before she was spotted by Henri Eva from Fords Modeling Agency and made history as French Vogue's youngest-ever cover model. Prior to her mother's death, the family was no stranger to family services, and Hardiman recalls her sister being hospitalized on one occasion when she tried to take a bottle of vodka from their mother. _

"_We thought Mom was asleep," Charlotte recalls, her eyes distant. "Sarah tried to take the bottle out of her hand, but Mom woke up and thought Sarah was trying to steal it. She hit Sarah with it; the bottle broke she hit so hard. Sarah still has a scar over her eyebrow." _

House brought Sarah's face to mind. She did have a small, angular scar above her left eyebrow. He'd never thought to ask about it. But he remembered when she'd taken the glass of whisky away from him, after he'd admitted to taking the Vicodin, and how carefully she'd asked if she could take it; how her hand had shook. Clearly the scars from that particular incident were more than skin deep.

Swallowing hard, he read on.

_Do you think your mother's death affected you and the decisions you've made in your career, I ask her. _

"_I remember that day so vividly," Hardiman says. And for the first time since we met, over a week ago now, I feel I might be seeing the _real_ Charlotte Hardiman. Her careful veneer cracks for a moment and tears well in her eyes. "I came home from school and Mom was lying on the floor in the kitchen. There was blood everywhere . . . everywhere. Alcohol is a vicious, vicious thing," she adds heatedly. _

_And yet, I point out, the experience hasn't stopped her drinking. A gin and tonic sits at her side even as we talk. _

"_Unlike my mother, I have the ability to control myself," she snaps._

_She refuses to say more on the topic, but as legend – and autopsy reports – go, June Hardiman drank a hole in her esophagus. She was home alone when her vomiting caused an internal hemorrhage and she died of massive blood loss. Hardiman's older sister, Sarah, just twenty at the time, attempted CPR but was unable to revive their mother. _

_Following their mother's death, Sarah gained legal custody of her sister and was responsible for managing Charlotte's career until her long-term manager Miles McKeon came on the scene when Charlotte accepted her first movie role at seventeen._

"_My sister is my rock," Charlotte declares. "She's the one person who knows me best."_

_Sarah Hardiman declined to be interviewed for this story. _

House did another search. _Charlotte Hardiman Mother Sister_. It produced yet more thousands of results and House read as much as he could before he thrust the mouse away in disgust. He couldn't bear anymore of Charlotte Hardiman's self-pitying rants. Every article he'd viewed had only increased his antipathy for the silly girl, especially the ones written by kowtowing journalists eager to drain every drop of sympathy from a reader.

Anyone with half a brain could see that the person deserving of sympathy here was Sarah. She'd protected her little sister, taken care of her when their father had left them with an alcoholic unable to care for her own children, tried desperately to resuscitate her own mother's cold, blue corpse, and then once all that was done, had taken custody of her sister and then stood in the shadows as Charlotte had soared to world-wide fame.

It was a wonder she had any sanity left. Instead she'd gone off and built a quiet life for herself, pursued one of the most demanding and thankless fields of nursing – psychiatry. And as thanks for that, she was attacked by a patient and almost paralyzed.

Now she'd gone and fallen in love with Greg House.

Had Sarah Hardiman been born under a blighted star? What other explanation could there be for such a tragic life story?

He called her.

"Good afternoon, this is Sarah Hardiman."

She sounded so normal.

"You're amazing."

There was a pause, then a nervous laugh. "Really?"

"Really."

"I don't feel particularly amazing, I think I'm coming down with the flu. But . . . What brought this on?"

"Nothing." No point dragging out the family skeletons. It was enough that he knew.

"Well, you're pretty amazing too."

"Nowhere near half as amazing as you. Can I cook you dinner tonight?"

"Ah, the famous cooking that you always brag about but I am yet to see? Yes, that would be great."

"Cool, I'll pick up—"

"Oh damn, I can't. I've got a fundraising committee meeting. It'll go late. Can we make it tomorrow night instead?"

"Sure." Besides, his duck ragu was better after twenty-four hours anyway.

"Can't wait." He could hear the smile in her voice.

Relieved, he sank back in his chair. "Good. Prepare to have your culinary socks knocked off."

"See you then."

He said a quick goodbye, grabbed his backpack and headed out the door for the market.

* * *

House's phone rang Tuesday morning at nine when he was considering getting out of bed. He'd stayed up late last night, filling the refrigerator with a meal fit for a queen. And about a dozen of her courtiers. There was enough food to last two people for a week. It didn't matter.

He figured the call would be about the patient, and he picked up the phone, barking "House" in his best "get lost" voice.

"House? I need to talk to you."

House checked the screen of his phone to be sure it _was_ Cuddy. It sounded like her, except for the thread of uncertainty and barely veiled panic in her voice.

"What?" he snapped again, figuring he'd keep up his usual tone until he figured out what was going on. Could something have happened to Wilson?

"I need your advice . . . as a doctor."

He sat up in bed, suddenly fully alert. "As opposed to my advice as a ninja assassin?"

She didn't respond to the joke. "It's for . . . well, it's about me."

Something twisted in his gut. It must be serious for her to come to him this way after everything. He responded the only way he could. "Yes, your breasts are lopsided, but that's probably something you should take up with Taub, not me."

Again she ignored the attempt at levity. "I found blood in my urine."

_Was that all?_ House felt a wave of relief wash over him. "It's a UTI," he said dismissively. "Drink some cranberry juice and tell Lucas to stop pounding at you like a jackhammer. If he needs some hints on technique I'd be happy to advise."

"I had a cystoscopy yesterday that was clear. But Wilson did an ultrasound this morning. There's a mass in my right kidney." She spoke quickly, as if that would reduce the impact of her words. "I'd like . . . that is, Yates is a nephrologist as well, but you . . ." She trailed off.

House paused for just a moment. "I'll be there in thirty minutes. Have the scans and test results on my desk."

He snapped the phone shut and headed for the shower.

In his office, he scanned Cuddy's chart. Someone had prescribed antibiotics in case this _was_ just a UTI, something House still strongly suspected. The mass in the kidney could be a coincidence, a benign tumor, a cyst, an immense number of things. A biopsy was scheduled for that morning.

Ignoring his team and their discussion about the patient, House headed for Cuddy's office. He found her in deep discussion with a lawyer. He overheard her mention safety deposit boxes and pension funds.

"You're drafting a will?" House asked in disbelief.

Cuddy shook her head. "It's something I should have done a long time ago. I need to protect Rachel. Lucas needs to know . . ."

"You're an idiot. I didn't take you for a hypochondriac."

"It's nothing to do with that," Cuddy protested. "I just needed to get this done. It was a good opportunity."

"Oh bullshit."

Cuddy pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, as if he was giving her a headache. "House, can you please leave me alone?"

"You were the one that asked me to review your case." He held up her chart.

She blinked slowly. "I have a biopsy scheduled at eleven. I'll see you there."

House could tell she was fighting to keep her voice level. He wasn't sure if it was because she wanted to yell or cry.

House went back to his office, fuming the whole way. This was how it always went with Cuddy. He felt like the mouse to her cat. She played with him, reeled him in, and then swatted him away again when she felt like it. Was that how people who loved each other behaved? Based on the first fifty years of his life, he was tempted to answer _yes_. Based on the past couple of months with Sarah? _Maybe not . . ._

His cell phone had a missed call. Dialing voice mail, he smiled to hear Sarah's voice.

"I forgot to tell you yesterday that I was late to work because of you," her recorded voice said, and he could hear the smile in it. "Next Sunday we're sleeping in _my_ apartment and if you want to do that again, we have to wake up earlier to leave time for it. And I was late again this morning because my alarm didn't wake me. Margaret Simons has come to see me twice already to ask about my stomach flu. Lucky I am actually coming down with the flu, so I was able to be pretty convincing. _And_ I saw Mrs Beddingfield this morning on my way out today and she gave me a very strange look." Her voice dropped, as if she didn't want someone to overhear. "You're very naughty. I just want you to know that. Hope I'll see you tonight. I don't want to give you my germs, but I really do want to try your cooking. I'll call you later to let you know how I'm feeling. Bye."

Strangely, House felt his blood pressure settle back down to somewhere near normal.

By the time eleven came around, he'd been able to have a halfway decent DDX about the teenager with his team and he was feeling more capable of facing Cuddy's hypochondria. He was almost convinced that was all it was. Almost.

Wilson did the biopsy; House observed. The results came back fast, no doubt Cuddy's position helped with prioritizing the pathology schedule.

Cuddy turned up in his office only moments after the lab assistant had left.

"_Inconclusive_," he said immediately, scanning the results in front of him. "It was just as we thought, the mass was too close to the center of your kidney for the biopsy to provide solid results."

Cuddy released her breath slowly and sunk into the chair in front of his desk. "So surgery."

"Yep."

"We need scans to make sure the surgeon knows what to look for. Get those done today, get into surgery first thing in the morning."

She nodded. "Yeah, okay."

"Who's your treating doctor? You want me to arrange—"

"Wilson."

"But you sent your results to me?"

"I know the first person you'll tell is him. And I wanted your input. But I want him as my doctor on paper."

House was strangely hurt by the knowledge. Even though he knew it made sense – an unknown mass anywhere in the body _should_ be investigated by an oncologist. If it wasn't cancer, then given it was in her kidney, a nephrologist could take over to investigate other potential diagnoses.

He nodded. "Fine."

"House . . ." Cuddy trailed off, and House noticed her twisting her hands in her lap.

"What?"

She lifted her chin to meet his eyes. She was close to tears, her blue eyes brimming. "I'm scared."

Her fear made him nervous. "You'll be fine," he said dismissively.

"I'm scared. I'm scared that this is serious. And I'm scared that I've made the wrong decisions in my life," she added quietly.

"What? You pee a little blood and suddenly you're dying? Don't be ridic—"

"Will you come to the scan with me?" she interrupted.

At first he didn't realize what she was asking. "Cuddy, I don't need to be there to see the results. We have these things called computers . . ." He trailed off as her meaning settled in. "You want _me_ there?"

She nodded.

"What about Lucas?"

She looked away, staring out the window behind him. "He's concerned, of course. But he doesn't know just how serious this could be." Her eyes settled back on him. "I need someone who understands the possibilities."

"But I . . ."

"_Please._"

House sucked in a breath before he gave her a nod. He had no idea why she suddenly wanted comfort and support from him – the least comforting and supportive person he could imagine – but he couldn't bring himself to say no.

As per usual the MRI schedule ran late. He spent the time in the waiting room with Cuddy, surprising himself, chatting with her about all kinds of subjects. It reminded him that once upon a time he and Lisa Cuddy had been _friends_. Before he'd hallucinated sleeping with her and besmirched her reputation, before she'd got engaged to a man House had considered a friend.

It was after six before Cuddy was finally wheeled in. As she was prepped, House excused himself briefly to leave a message for Sarah, postponing their dinner. He said it was because of a patient, figuring that was almost the truth.

An anonymous technician ran the scanner, someone House had never met before. In truth he didn't pay close attention to the scans, too busy joking with Cuddy over the intercom. He repeated a trick Wilson had once used on him.

"Cuddy this is God," he said in a deep, silly voice.

She laughed. "Don't. I'm supposed to stay still."

"You are a good person, Lisa Cuddy, but you work your staff too hard. Especially that wonderful Dr House. Compulsory four-day working weeks for him, and no clinic duty ever, if you hope to see the Pearly Gates one day."

She smirked. "Good try, House."

House was warmed by the fact that she was finally smiling again. "And that daughter of yours – candy whenever she wants it." Why not, he thought. He didn't know Rachel well, but if Cuddy's macrobiotic diet was anything to go by, the kid deserved a break.

"Candy. Right, gotcha." She rolled her eyes.

"And that man-child you call a fiancé. Keep a tight rein on him."

Cuddy grimaced and didn't say anything. House realized he'd skated a little too close to the elephant in the MRI suite. Where was Lucas anyway?

"Why on earth you chose to take up with him when you had the wonderful Dr House at your beck and call I'll never know," he said in his God-voice, knowing he was pushing it.

Cuddy blinked and a tear rolled away from her face. "Me either," she said in a whisper.

Shocked, House took his finger off the intercom button and sank back in the chair. Had he just heard what he thought he'd heard? The very thought made his gut turn to water.

His thoughts were interrupted when the technician turned to him. "Doctor? I think you might want to take a look at this."

* * *

She was dead. The shadows in Cuddy's lungs made it almost certain the mass in her kidney was cancer. Cancer that had already metastasized to her lungs.

She'd held on to him and cried, her tears staining his shirt. He'd patted her hair, rubbed her back, and stayed silent because he didn't know what to say. Where was Wilson when you needed him?

Then she'd sucked in a deep breath, raised her head, and prepared to go back to her family. She'd given him a watery smile, muttered her thanks and then, goddamnit, she'd kissed him. A brief kiss, broken before he had time to respond, but definitely a passionate kiss. Not a _thank you_ kiss, not a _you're a good friend_ kiss. But a real, un-hallucinated kiss. Cuddy's lips on his, just as he'd once wanted, _so bad_.

"You were always the one," she said on a whisper. Her blue eyes bored into his. "Do you think you and I would have worked? Do you think we still could?"

When he didn't respond, shock keeping him paralyzed, she pulled away, her cheeks pink with embarrassment.

A muttered _sorry_ and then she was gone.


	18. Chapter 18

Disappointed that her dinner with Greg had yet again been postponed, Sarah sank into her sofa and pulled a soft throw around her shoulders. She felt like crap, too chilled and too tired to be bothered to cook her own food, so she just curled up and reached for the remote. She cursed the super who was finally coming the next morning to look at her fireplace – the idea of having the fire going while she lazed on the sofa and watched the hypnotizing flames was immensely appealing to her flu-addled brain.

She felt guilty about taking the day off last Friday. Now that it seemed she was actually sick, she felt like she couldn't take any further days off. As a result of Greg's call, Margaret Simons seemed to have appointed herself Sarah's personal health coach and she'd checked up on her every morning. Sarah had promised she'd be in at work the next day, despite Margaret's guilt-inducing encouragement to take another day off.

Her cell phone rang. Shaking her head at the leap in her stomach – thinking it might be Greg – she purposely made herself move more slowly to answer it. After all, she didn't want him to think she was sitting by the phone waiting for him to call.

As it turned out, it wasn't him anyway.

"Sarah? I'm in New York again!"

"Hi Charlie." Sarah tried to keep her sigh inaudible. She didn't really have the energy for her sister right now.

"Why don't you come and visit me?"

"I can't Charlie, I have work."

"Oh you can blow it off. Like on Friday."

"That . . . that was a special occasion."

Sarah could practically hear the pout on the other line. "Because of him?"

"Huh?"

"I don't want you to bring him again. But come o-o-o-o-on Sez, come and see me," she whined. "I'll send a car for you."

"Charlie I can't. I have work and I'm coming down with the flu. I wouldn't want to give you my germs."

"Oh."

Sarah had known that would stop Charlie in her tracks. Anything that threatened Charlie's own wellbeing would not be entertained.

"Why are you in New York again?" Sarah asked. It was pointless waiting for Charlie to provide sympathy or ask how she was feeling.

"Another party for the film."

"Oh." Sarah was struggling to make conversation. All she wanted was to sleep. Preferably with Greg's body next to hers.

"He's there isn't he? That's why you don't want to talk to me," Charlie pouted.

"No, he's not here right now." Sarah wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer, but she couldn't stop herself asking, "Why don't you like him?"

"I like him fine, but he's not right for you."

"How do you know that?" It had been a long time since Sarah had introduced her sister to a boyfriend. A long time since she'd felt safe enough that she wouldn't be dumped as soon as he caught sight of Charlotte. It wasn't just her imagination, Charlotte had taken pride in stealing many of Sarah's boyfriends – she knew for a fact Charlie had slept with one of her college boyfriends when she hadn't even been sixteen.

"He's old. And what's with the walking cane? Does he have a prosthetic foot or something gross like that?"

"He's only ten years older than me. And he has an injury to his thigh, it means he walks with a limp."

"See, that's gross."

"It's not gross, Charlie."

"He's using you," Charlie warned direly.

"Why do you think that?"

"You're good at looking after people. He's getting old and he wants someone to look after him. He wants a nurse."

A wave of nausea swept through Sarah's belly that she chose to blame on the flu. But words bubbled up her throat like bile. She couldn't hold them back. "Charlie, _some_ people want me for more than just my ability to look after them."

"Really?"

The casual insult made Sarah laugh, a little hysterically sure, but what other reaction could she have?

"Yes, _really_ Charlie," she said dryly.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that. Don't go getting huffy."

This was a very different conversation with her sister, and Sarah could almost feel Charlie's confusion on the other end of the line. It wasn't often that Sarah defended herself, talked back to her sister. She'd long-ago learned it was just easier, mostly, to let Charlie have her way. Maybe, though, the time for that had ended.

"I'm not huffy, Charlie. Greg's a part of my life now. I love him and I think he loves me." Sarah superstitiously crossed her fingers.

"You_ think _he loves you?" Charlie replied archly.

"I'm sorry Charlie, I'm not letting you ruin this for me. If I end up taking care of Greg, it will be because I love him." And Sarah really was okay about that. A thought occurred to her. "I'll still have plenty of time to take care of you, too, don't worry."

"I wasn't worried," Charlie said, too quickly.

There was silence for a moment. "You don't really need me to take care of you anymore, anyway, do you?" Sarah said carefully.

"You're my sister!" Charlie sounded horrified.

"Yes, and I always will be. I'll always love you, Charlie, but practically, I can't always help you. Calling me when you're in trouble doesn't really help either of us."

Charlie was silent. Sarah let the silence sit for a while. Butterflies of anxiety were dancing in her belly but now that she'd started down this path she was determined to see it through. The conversation was overdue by about fifteen years.

"Miles tells me I'm mean to you."

The fragility in her sister's voice made a lump grow in Sarah's throat. "Sometimes, you are."

"I . . . I don't mean it like that, Sez."

"I know." Charlie was a show-off, a diva, a princess. She had been all her life. But life had taken away all the people she could show-off to. No mother, no father. Just a sister. A sister who was mother, father and sibling all rolled into one. Just as life had forced Sarah to take on the role of parent, Charlie had had to take on a role too – that of child.

"Charlie?" Hot tears welled in Sarah's eyes. "I . . . I don't want to be Mom anymore. I just want to be your sister. Can we do that?"

There was a long silence. Then, in a quiet voice, "I want to be your sister too."

"I know. And Charlie?" Sarah closed her eyes as if that would make the words easier to say. "I tried so hard to save Mom. I did everything I could. It wasn't my fault that she died. You have to stop blaming me." She paused and something deep inside clicked into place. "_I_ have to stop blaming me."

A sucked in breath on the other end of the phone. Was Charlie crying? "I love you Sez."

"I love you too."

"Sisters, right?"

"Sisters," Sarah confirmed, tears rolling down her cheeks now.

Charlie was silent for a while longer. "I still don't think Greg's right for you," she said.

Sarah managed a watery smile. "That's okay." It made for a nice change to have Charlie concerned about _her_ welfare for once.

"Well, I've got to go to this party," Charlie said. "Apparently Martin Scorsese's going to be there. Miles reckons he's doing a remake of _Rebecca_. I want in on that."

Her voice sounded completely normal again. Had the whole thing been an act? Sarah guessed she'd never know – not until the next time Charlie called. She sighed. At least it had been a start.

And maybe, just maybe, the biggest change had needed to be made on her side anyway. Maybe all these years she was the one who needed to be ready to let go . . .

"Good luck," Sarah said, genuinely meaning it.

"Take care of your flu. Lemon and honey is good, but make sure it's organic honey. Bye."

Shocked, Sarah managed to remember to say goodbye and hang up the call. Her sister offering home remedies? Her sister offering advice, help, support in any way – even as miniscule as lemon and honey for flu? Maybe things really had changed.

Blowing her nose and wiping her face of tears, Sarah snuggled into the sofa. She couldn't wait to tell Greg what had happened.

* * *

House slammed the apartment door behind him and swore. He swore again, until he'd run through every curse word he knew. Then he started inventing new ones.

Lisa Cuddy was dying. Better yet, she'd decided on reviewing her life that maybe man-child Lucas had been the wrong bet in the horse race of life. Maybe good old House was the one she wanted after all.

Just when his life was . . . _Well_. He'd started to think that maybe things were looking up.

He should have known better.

His old friend, anger, was a handy standby. All the other emotions battling for a share of his mind were too confusing, too painful to think about. And yet throwing a couple of CDs – the closest thing to hand – against the wall and watching the plastic shatter wasn't even vaguely satisfying.

He _needed_ a pill. Needed beyond any need he'd known before. Longing for drug-induced numbness streamed from his every pore.

He remembered the deal with Sarah. Call her, and she'd give him one. _Yeah right._ This would be a nice one to try to explain. He could just imagine: "Sarah, remember that woman whose name I called when we had sex once? The one I told you I was in love with? Only now I don't know how I feel about her, and yeah, well, she's dying. Oh and it turns out she wants me after all. It's all too much to cope with. So can I please have a couple of Vicodin?"

It had been a stupid idea in the first place. House cursed himself for giving the pills to her. If he hadn't, he'd have had a ready supply in the apartment. As it stood, right now he had nothing stronger than some flu-strength codeine.

He checked his watch; it was after nine. There was nowhere else he could really go to score more, unless he went back to the hospital and tried to find another new doctor he could browbeat.

A desperate voice whispered in his ear.

_Maybe there's still some in the hall closet. _

He tore it apart. Nothing.

How _dare_ Cuddy declare herself to him like that! The woman had fucking well decided to marry Lucas. How on earth she'd seen that loser as somehow more worthy than him, he'd never understand. And how on earth she thought a death sentence gave her leave to change her mind . . . ? He growled as he threw an empty box across the room.

_Maybe in one of your old coat pockets. _

He pulled every item off its hanger in his bedroom closet, ripping several pockets in his search.

Nothing.

And she was dying! The woman he'd loved for more years than he cared to count. Loved selfishly and alone, he admitted, but loved nonetheless. A love she'd never returned. Until her life was threatened.

A love he'd been learning to live without. Because a new love had been growing in its place?

He tossed the thought aside.

_Maybe in the kitchen, in the cupboard of old takeout containers._

It took only a sweep of his arm to empty the shelf. White translucent plastic littered the floor.

Nothing.

Despite the happiness he'd found these past few weeks, his life had been slowly unraveling since Hanna's death. Everything had been going okay, for the most part, until then.

Hanna's face looked up at him from the stretcher. _Why? Why am I dying? Why me?_

Cuddy's face when he'd told her about the results of the scan. _Why? Why am I dying? Why me?_

"I don't know!" he yelled to the ceiling. He choked back a sob.

Need clawed at him.

It was too much.

He couldn't. He didn't have the strength. He needed . . .

Before he knew it, he was taking the stairs two at a time and banging on her door.

"Greg?" She sounded confused and one side of her face was red, as if she'd been lying down. "Sorry, I didn't think you were coming over tonight. I've got the flu, I feel like crap, but guess—"

"Where are they?" he demanded, shoving his way into the apartment and searching her shelves.

"What?" she asked. Then her expression cleared. "Oh." Looking exhausted, she made her way to the sofa, stumbling a little groggily as she took a seat. "Why don't you sit down and tell me—"

He swept the books off one shelf, sending them to the floor with a crash, before turning to growl at her. "I'm not going to beg. Give. Me. My. Pills."

She seemed serene in the face of his rage. "Calm down, Greg. I'll give them to you if you just tell me what happened."

"You have no idea what it's like."

"I know—"

"Oh, you think you do. Poor little girl, mommy's drinking again, but you'll take care of everything. Until she bleeds out on the kitchen floor because you didn't catch that one last bottle of vodka she smuggled in."

She flinched as if he'd slapped her. Good. Maybe if he just got her riled up enough she give up the pills and throw him out. That'd be fine with him. "Just give me the fucking Vicodin."

"Did someone die?"

Her patient persistence was killing him. "No, but someone will if you don't tell me where they are."

She didn't seem to take his threat seriously. He thought she probably should. He was getting desperate.

She closed her eyes for a moment and opened them, looking sad. "I'll get them. But I'd really like it if you'd tell me what's going on." She rose from the sofa and wobbled on her feet for a moment, grabbing at the arm for balance. "Whoa. Flu is kicking my butt," she muttered. She pulled a blanket around her shoulders.

He didn't care about her flu.

As she came close to him, she reached out and took his arm. "What can I do?" she asked. "How can I help?"

"Can you stop Lisa Cuddy from dying?" That wasn't all of it, but it would do for now.

"Lisa's dying?" Sarah looked shocked, and it only made him more annoyed. It wasn't like they'd ever met.

"She has kidney cancer that's metastasized to her lungs. Probably. Surgery tomorrow morning to confirm, but the scans don't look good."

Sarah looked devastated. Clearly the wrong sister had gone into acting because it was an Oscar-worthy performance. "Oh, Greg, I'm so sorry."

With a squeeze of his arm, she disappeared into the bedroom, hitching the blanket tighter around her.

She returned a moment later, holding the orange vial in her hand. She held it out to him. "All I'm asking is that you think about this. Think about what you're doing. You've come so far. Don't make one little slip into a landslide. You don't have to go back to the way things were before. You can fight this and win. I've seen you do it."

"Wow. Been practicing that little speech long?"

She shook her head. "You can fight it. I know you can."

"You know nothing about me." Suddenly it seemed like the truth. How could this woman who'd known him for just two months know him the way his friend and boss and unrequited love for the past ten years did? Sarah thought she loved him. How could she know? How could she even consider it? Cuddy had seen every bad and mean and horrible thing he'd done and she wanted him in spite of all that. Sarah had only seen him try – and fail – to be better than he was.

She put the pill bottle into his outstretched hand, closing his fingers around it. "I know you're stronger than you think."

He shook his head, denying her words. He wasn't strong. He was weak. Incredibly weak. And a bad doctor. Not deserving of someone who had faith in him. Maybe Cuddy, who knew how rotted he was inside, who doubted him, and taunted him, and constantly changed her mind about him, maybe, _maybe, _he was deserving of her fickle affections. But not this woman's.

"I kissed her," he said.

Sarah's face subtly changed, and she blinked. She walked slowly to the sofa, taking a seat.

"I kissed her and she kissed me and she wants to know if we can work."

Sarah nodded. Her bottom lip began to tremble, making House feel sicker than he already did.

"Good luck, I guess," she said, not looking at him.

"That's it?" he said. "That's all you have to say?"

She shrugged. "What else can I say?"

"I thought you said you loved me." He spat the words.

"Which would be a problem if you loved me too."

House closed his eyes and tightened his fist around the pill bottle in his hand. This was too hard. Too much.

"So that's it," he said. "You didn't mean anything you said."

She look up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and brimming. "Greg, I'll fight this with you. I'm not scared of you, not even like this. I'll stand by your side and fight. But if you want Lisa, then you should go to her." Sarah swallowed hard. "She needs you." Her voice broke with a sob.

"Oh stop being so damned selfless." House paced the room, his grip on the pills so tight he was sure the plastic would crack.

Sarah stood up, anger overcoming the grief on her face. "What do you want me to say?"

He didn't know. He wanted her to hate him. Then it would be easier to face the hurt he was causing her.

"Cuddy and I . . ." he began. He winced at the pain that crossed her face, but forced himself to continue. "I've loved her for years. Years."

"And she got engaged to someone else," Sarah said quietly.

He shook his head, denying the information. "She knows me."

"And I don't?"

"Not really, no."

"Oh, you think you're _so_ complicated." Sarah threw up her hands, anger finally starting to settle in. "So special and unique. But you're not, Greg. You're just like the rest of us. Dealing with the fall-out of a fucked up life, trying to make your way through it as best you can. Guess what? That doesn't make you special, it makes you human."

"People live and die because of me!"

"And you have a God complex a mile wide." She shook her head. "People die, Greg. Patients die. Sometimes you can save them and sometimes you can't. As long as you do your best, that's how you sleep at night."

"But I don't. I don't do my best. I haven't been. Not for a while."

"Then you need to fix that. Do better."

He swallowed hard. "I don't know if can do better."

She narrowed her eyes, squinting at him, as if the answer were obvious. "Of course you can."

There she went again. That blind belief that he was capable of improvement, of winning the battle that he was fighting against himself – against Hanna's ghost.

"I need to know," he said. "I need to know if Cuddy and I can make it." Because at least then he'd know whether or not he'd been right about them. At least then he'd know if he was even remotely capable of assessing a situation correctly and making the right decision. One way or the other – at least he'd know. How things would work between them if she _was_ dying – well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

Sarah sucked in a sob, tears filling her eyes again. "Then you should go to her."

Something inside him broke, pain shot through his chest in jagged bolts. This wasn't how it was supposed to turn out. Wasn't how it was supposed to end. "Sarah, I . . ."

"Just go, Greg."

He stood there a moment longer, looking down at the pills in his hand. How had he made such a mess of his life? How could things have come to this?

It was so incredibly wrong that he'd dragged this poor woman into the vortex of his misery.

"Get out!" she screamed, her legendary patience finally snapping. House was glad to see it. Anger, he knew from experience, was easier to deal with than sorrow.

Much better to stay angry about things than to mourn them.

Without saying anything further, he let himself out of her apartment, closing the door behind him.

In his own apartment, he ripped a bottle of scotch from a shelf in the kitchen and uncorked the top, tipping the bottle to his mouth. There wasn't much point finding a glass – it only added an extra step in the process.

He sank onto the sofa, taking another swig. He tossed the Vicodin on the coffee table in front of him. The vial skated across the surface but stopped just before tipping over the edge. He managed a black laugh. Was it a sign?

Another swallow of scotch and he felt his breathing begin to slow. Blood was still pounding in his ears and that strange ache in his chest persisted. High blood pressure and chest pains in a fifty-two-year-old man. If he was an ER case, he'd bet on an approaching MI. House welcomed the idea. Having a heart attack would at least keep him busy for a while. Prevent him from having to deal with Cuddy's cancer or Sarah's heartbreak. Or Hanna's ghost.

He looked at the Vicodin. The monkey on his back, the noose around his neck, his very own "dark passenger".

He picked up the scotch and took another shot.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N:** Hi everyone. Don't know whether anyone else is having this problem, but my traffic stats have gone missing for the past few days, so I have no idea if anyone is reading this unless they leave a review! Most annoying. But hopefully you stilll are hanging in there. ;)

* * *

"_Dok-ter Hoose! Dok-ter Hoose!_"

It took a while for House to realize that the banging on the door and frantic calling of his name in a strong Russian accent was real, and not in his dream. Sitting up from the sofa where he'd fallen asleep – _passed out_ – last night, he rubbed his face blearily. The almost-empty bottle of scotch came into view first, sending a wave of nausea swimming over him.

He tried to stand and wobbled on his feet. He was still drunk.

"_Dok-ter Hoose! You must come!_"

Yelling a reply through the door made his head hurt, but he did it anyway. "What the hell is all this racket at . . ." He looked at his watch. "Ten-thirty in the morning?"

_Ten-thirty?_ There was something happening this morning, something important . . .

He swayed again as memory rocked through him. Cuddy's surgery was at eight. It would be over now. The confirmation – or not – of cancer would be in.

And then the scene with Sarah flooded his mind . . . The room swam around him.

"_Dok-ter Hoose! Puh-leeze! Help needed!_"

House threw open the door, looking down at himself as an afterthought. Luckily he wasn't naked. In fact, he was still wearing the clothes he'd worn yesterday, right down to his shoes.

"What?" he barked.

"Is emergency. Puh-leeze." The tall, skinny man with steel-grey hair and a long, sad-looking face started to dance up the hallway to the stairs. House vaguely recognized him as the super for the building. He'd fixed a window sash in House's apartment once.

Sighing, House followed the Russian up the stairs. It wasn't until he reached the top that his brain began to process what was happening. Especially when Vladimir – or whatever his name was – turned towards Sarah's apartment.

Through the open door he could see Mrs Thingiefield leaning over Sarah's prone body which was crumpled on the floor. As he took another step, Sarah began to seize – her back arching, arms flailing. The old woman grabbed at her, trying to restrain her.

Adrenaline surged through him, overcoming the numbing effects of the alcohol for a moment. Throwing his cane to the floor he ran the last few steps into the apartment.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he yelled. "Get away from her."

"I'm just trying to stop her from hurting herself," the old woman protested, looking shocked and desperate.

"Leave her alone, you'll only hurt her – and possibly yourself." The last thing he needed was the old woman cracking a hip on top of all this.

The woman let go her grip on Sarah's arms and sat back, but it didn't make much difference as the seizure was subsiding.

House knelt on the floor next to Sarah's limp body, and rolled her onto her side. He checked her pupil response, her pulse. "What happened?" he asked as he surveyed her body, looking for injury. His hands sifted through her hair, searching for a head wound.

"I come to fix heater," Vladimir said. "I think she not home, so I open door. I find her on floor. I go get Missus Beddingfield. Missus Beddingfield tell me to get you."

"Was that her first seizure?" he asked.

Mrs Beddingfield answered this time. "I don't know. I've only been here for five minutes or so."

"Has someone called 911?" House asked.

"I'll do it now." Mrs Beddingfield got up from the floor, pulling herself up on the sofa.

"Tell them you need an ambulance for Doctor Gregory House going to Princeton Plainsboro Hospital."

He couldn't find any sign of injury. Her pupils were a little sluggish, but responsive, and she was unconscious.

On the coffee table sat a bottle of vodka and a bulk-buy pack of extra-strength cold and flu pills. A pile of crumpled tissues and a small pool of vomit were on the floor nearby.

_Oh God. No._

Inelegant, but it'd work.

But she wouldn't have, couldn't possibly . . . He all too well understood the longing for relief, the desire for oblivion from pain – both physical and emotional. But the thought that Sarah might have decided to end her life after last night . . . Because of him . . .

The alcohol still in House's stomach tried to see daylight again. He took a deep breath and swallowed hard, fighting for control. He listened to the old lady on the phone, giving the details, then hanging up.

He took charge. Because there was no other option. "Vladimir. Go downstairs and open the door for the paramedics. Show them where to come when they get here."

"Okay," he responded. "But name not Vladimir. My name—"

"Doesn't matter," House barked.

The super pulled a face, but disappeared to do as he was told.

Mrs Beddingfield just stood there, wringing her hands. "Oh dear. Poor Sarah. She's such a nice girl."

"Hand me those pills," House snapped at her, pointing at the cold and flu pack on the table. He stayed sitting next to Sarah, monitoring her pulse. Not that he needed to, because it was only slightly elevated, but there wasn't anything else he could do.

Mrs Beddingfield handed over the box and House checked the blister pack inside. Four pills out of thirty-six were missing. Nowhere near enough for an overdose, he realized with a relief strong enough to knock the breath out of him. The vodka bottle was half-empty, but he had no way of knowing how much of it she'd drunk. He leaned over to smell her breath – there was a faint whiff of alcohol, but then he wondered how much of it was coming from him, not her.

It seemed to take forever, but it was only a few minutes before the paramedics arrived. House provided a quick run-down, and as there wasn't much they could do except put her on oxygen and get her on a stretcher, it was barely minutes after that that he was out on the street, blinking in the unexpected sunlight as they loaded Sarah into the back of the wagon.

"You coming with, Doctor House?" one of the paramedics asked.

"Yeah, just gimme one second." House went to the side of the building and vomited. It was just scotch and bile, burning as much on the way up as it had on the way down. He spat and wiped his mouth on his sleeve before turning back to the ambulance. "Okay, let's go."

* * *

Sarah had come around during the ride to the hospital, but she was confused and panicked. She didn't seem to recognize him, and kept pulling the oxygen mask from her face, trying to get up. The paramedics wanted to sedate her, but House stopped them. He didn't know why she'd seized, or why she was unconscious. Better not to sedate her until he did.

After a minute or so of hysteria, House doing his best to reassure her, she lapsed back into unconsciousness.

_Think, House, think. _

He knew the answer. He could feel it tickling his subconscious, tantalizingly out of reach. If only he wasn't still fuzzy. If only he hadn't . . .

He sat on the bench seat next to the stretcher and fought for the solution. Then he froze as he was overcome by memory.

Hanna's face overlaid Sarah's. Those desperate eyes looking up at him. Chest heaving with the effort to breathe.

_Why? Why me? Dr House? You have to save me. Please! _

"Christ," he muttered. He sat back and closed his eyes. It didn't help. Behind his eyelids, a flickering parade of all the patients he'd lost since Hanna played out like an old film. That teenage girl, dead because he couldn't stop arguing with Cuddy. The baby mom. The smallpox dad. The ruined real estate agent.

"You okay doc?"

He didn't bother to answer.

In the ER they were greeted by a team of people he'd never met. Or at least never bothered to worry about learning their names. He ordered all the usual bloods, asked them to set up a heart monitor, just in case, and booked an MRI. He thought about a charcoal lavage, but as it seemed clear she'd only taken four cold and flu pills at the most, he figured it wasn't necessary.

No one in the ER had quite the sense of urgency he was looking for, but after a bit of satisfying yelling, everyone seemed to step up their game.

House stood to one side, observing, trying to make his brain work. He knew the answer. He _knew it_.

He hated that his brain was letting him down. Hated the numbed feeling as much as he'd craved it the previous night.

_Think! _

He'd been silent for a while now and the panic his yelling had created among the staff had begun to abate. The nurses undressing Sarah, threading her limp body into a hospital gown, were chatting to each other about the weather. How nice the sunshine was today – how unseasonably cold it had been this Fall.

Cold.

_I come to fix heater._

It had been cold in Sarah's apartment.

She had one of those modern gas fireplace contraptions.

Last night, she'd had that blanket wrapped around her.

_I come to fix heater._

The flu.

Not the flu. Just flu-like symptoms.

Headaches. Not caused by cheap red wine.

_I come to fix heater._

"Get her into the hyperbaric chamber," he announced loudly, startling the nurses as he moved away from the wall suddenly. "It's carbon monoxide poisoning. Get oxygen into her, now. Get her off the nasal cannula, put her on a non-rebreather mask and up the flow rate to one hundred percent. Then get her to the basement."

Oxygen, the only treatment. As simple as that.

The nurses were quick to do his bidding and moments later Sarah was being wheeled towards the elevators and a call had been made to the fire department, so the cause could be addressed.

Inside the elevator, a brief hitch in the smooth descent made the floor lurch under House's feet and the world spun around him. When the doors opened at the basement where the hyperbaric chamber was located, he waved them out, assuring them he'd come back later.

Less than twenty minutes after that he was in his office with a banana bag affixed to his left arm and a double espresso steaming on his desk, fighting off the hangover that loomed large on the horizon.

He needed a timeout. He needed time to process what had just happened.

_Sarah. _

She could have died. Would have died. If that super hadn't decided to open the door, it would only have been a matter of hours and she'd have been dead.

It wasn't like House would have gone to check on her. In fact, he'd probably have welcomed silence from her. It wouldn't have been until the smell of her rotting corpse had made its way into his apartment that he'd have any idea that she wasn't just ignoring him for being a grade-A bastard as he deserved.

His stomach flipped again and he grabbed the trashcan. His heave only brought up bitter coffee and made his stomach ache.

House sat, watching the IV drip slowly into his arm, willing it to clear his head. He played over in his mind the times he'd spent with Sarah. Movie nights. Her terrible cooking. Her warm embrace. Her comforting smell of flowers and hope. She'd thought he and Alvie were lovers! The idea still made him smile, despite everything.

The thing about it was, she deserved better. She didn't deserve him. Maybe Cuddy deserved him. But Sarah didn't.

That thought send him off on another mental train.

_Cuddy. _

It had been hours now. Hours since she'd received either a death sentence or a reprieve. Even longer since she'd kissed him, asked him if they had a chance.

He could hack into the system, find out the results. But he felt like he needed to see her, to hear the news from her. He willed himself to sober up.

_If you hadn't been so out of your skull, you'd have diagnosed Sarah sooner. _

The pain returned to his chest. He couldn't think about it.

He ripped at the tape on his arm, pulling out the IV. It hadn't been enough, but it would have to do.

He guessed Cuddy would be on the surgical floor and headed there. Sure enough, a question to a passing nurse and he was standing at her door a moment later.

An observer. An outsider.

He didn't need to ask how the surgery had gone.

The broad smile on Cuddy's face said it all. As did the broad smile on Lucas's face as he held her hand. As he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead.

House waited for the betrayal to kick in. He waited for the heartbreak.

It didn't come.

He just felt tired. No more. He couldn't do this anymore.

Cuddy looked away from Lucas and her happy, adoring gaze flickered and faded as she spotted House. A faint look of fear crossed her eyes before she covered it with a careful mask. _Fear_. She was scared of what he might say, what he might reveal. What he might do to her.

He recalled Sarah's words from the previous night. _I'm not afraid of you Greg. _

Cuddy might know him better, but what she did know, she was scared of.

"House," she called out to him, a brittle falseness in her tone. "Good news."

He took a couple of slow steps that brought him just inside the room. "Looks like it," he said.

"It was benign."

"That's great," he said flatly, not making an effort to hide his weariness. He was genuinely happy for her – he wasn't that much of an asshole, at least – but he couldn't bring himself to muster much enthusiasm.

"Isn't it?" Lucas broke in, a huge smile on his face. He bent over to press a kiss to her forehead again. "It was touch-and-go for a while there, but my baby's going to be all fine." He looked down at Cuddy again, smiling the smile that House had thought he'd be wearing. Standing in the place House thought he'd be standing. Holding the hand House had thought he'd be holding.

_Who was he kidding?_

He knew now with rock-solid certainty that there was another bedside he needed to be at. He'd never been needed here. He'd never really _wanted_ to be here. It was just what he was used to – a comfortable, familiar pattern. Things had changed, and history showed he was often pretty slow on the uptake when that happened.

_Things had changed._

Cuddy blinked at him, a nervous smile curving her mouth. "Thanks House," she said. "For everything." She reached over to take Lucas's hand in hers. Making it perfectly clear, if she hadn't already. She'd made her choice. Maybe, if she were still dying, things would be different. He'd never know. Surprisingly, he didn't care.

"Welcome," he said simply, turning away.

* * *

Sarah had to blink hard to bring the grey shape across the room into focus. She gave up and kept her eyes shut. "It's Wednesday," she said tiredly. She'd lost count of how many times she'd said it over the past couple of hours. "My name is Sarah Hardiman. Obama is President. I am in Princeton Plainsboro Hospital." Her voice sounded echoing and strange through the plastic mask that covered her nose and mouth.

"Very good," a gruff voice responded. It wasn't the friendly nurse who'd been pestering her with neuro obs every fifteen minutes.

Any thought on how to respond was lost in another of the desperate waves of nausea that had been happening since she'd awoken. She grappled desperately with the mask. "Oh God, I'm gonna throw up again."

A moment later the mask had been lifted from her face and a basin held in front of her. It was a dry heave. There was nothing left to come up anyway.

She tried to catch her breath, feeling an odd panic settle over her. He offered her a cup of water and she gulped at it.

"Sip," he ordered, lowering the cup so she had to follow it with her head. "Slowly."

When he decided she'd had enough he took the cup away and settled the mask on her face again. She winced. She understood the reason for the mask instead of a cannula, and was prepared to put up with it, but it made her feel claustrophobic, trapped, and it wasn't pleasant having it put on again.

Blinking hard, she managed to bring him into focus. He looked as bad as she felt. His hair was mussed, his clothes crumpled beyond their usual artful messiness, and his face had a gray pallor to it. He looked old and tired and yet an energy vibrated from him, something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"You look like crap," she said, her voice echoing off the plastic again.

"So do you."

"Thanks."

He was silent.

"I'm told you probably saved my life."

He shrugged.

"Yeah, well, thanks." Because what did you say to the man who'd broken your heart and saved your life, all in less than twenty-four hours?

"You wouldn't have died, not once we got you out of there. But your brain could have turned into scrambled eggs if it had taken much longer to work out what was going on."

"Apparently there's still a chance of that happening."

He nodded. "A chance."

"That's why I'm playing twenty questions every few minutes."

"Yep."

Now that he'd finished with his little nursing duties, he was standing back from the bed, one hand resting heavily on his cane, the other shoved deep into his pocket.

"Well, I'm fine, for now, as you can see." Sarah shuffled in the bed, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

The door to her room slid open. "Okay Sarah, here we go again!" The nurse's bright tone sliced through the thick tension in the room.

"Sarah Hardiman, Wednesday, Obama, Princeton Plainsboro," Greg snapped. "Get out."

Sarah's twenty year nursing career bristled at the arrogant doctor dismissing a nurse who was only trying to do a job that yet another arrogant doctor had ordered her to do in the first place.

"It's okay Sophie," she said. "Doctor House is not feeling well this morning, so he's a little snappy."

The younger nurse gave Sarah a disbelieving look that told her that Greg's behavior was all-too familiar to her and had nothing to do with his health. Well, that was going to have to stop. There was no way that _her_ boyfriend was going to treat nurses—

She broke off her own thoughts with a twist of pain in her chest that had nothing to do with carbon monoxide.

Sophie smiled, keeping her focus on Sarah. "Okay then, you know the drill." She held up her clipboard and reeled off the questions. Sarah answered and a moment later Sophie was gone.

"You can't treat nurses like that," she said once the door was closed again.

He made a dismissive noise and rolled his eyes.

Sarah tried to sit up. She felt suddenly vulnerable with him standing over her, so tall and strong. Although, in the past, that had produced a wave of heat in her body, today it had the opposite effect; she felt chilled.

"Crap." Sarah swore as her arm collapsed beneath her as she tried to move. She had no strength, she was beyond tired and weak as a wet kitten.

A hand was on her elbow, the other around her upper arm, in proper position for safely hitching a patient, she noted, and a moment later she was sitting up against the pillows.

"You'd make a good nurse," she said, tucking the blanket around her, deliberately not looking at him.

"I'm sure," he said, sarcasm layered on thick.

She fell silent. Sleep clawed at her. Exhausted as she was, because of the neuro tests she'd been sleeping in ten minute bursts that were anything but restful. She wanted to curl up and stay asleep for _days_.

"Do you want me to call Charlie?" he asked out of the silence.

Sarah managed a laugh that sounded a little too much like a sob. Last night her sister had managed to recommend lemon and honey for the flu – but Sarah thought the neuro obs and nursing care she'd need over the next few days were probably still a little out of Charlie's league.

She shook her head. "No. I can't deal with her right now."

"Fair enough."

He sounded so shattered, as exhausted as she felt._ Why . . . ? _

Memory rolled over her.

_Cancer. Surgery to confirm._

She didn't want to know, and yet she did. Maybe his accusations about her being a sucker for pain weren't too far from the truth. "How's Lisa?" she asked, watching his face for reaction.

He stared out the window, his eyes blank. "She's gonna be fine. It was a benign tumor. No cancer."

"Oh. That's good."

"Yeah."

So they could live a long and happy life together. Sarah had never met this woman in her life, but suddenly she wanted to choke her to death with her bare hands. It was a strange but powerful feeling, and she wondered if it might be the beginning of the potential aftereffects of the poisoning.

"She's gone back to her fiancé." His voice was quiet, a little broken.

Conflicting emotions swarmed over her. Strangely, anger was high on the list. How dare Lisa Cuddy play with him like that? How dare she dangle the possibility of love in front of his eyes when she thought she was dying, only to take it back again when it turned out she wasn't? But the anger gave way to resignation. It explained why he was here.

He'd come back to second-best-Sarah.

The role she'd had all her life.

"I'm so sorry, Sarah." He turned from the window to look at her. The look in his eyes took her right back to that very first time they'd met. Transparent windows to his soul, they spoke of pain and sorrow and regret.

"I know," she said softly.

"Last night . . . what happened . . . I know now, I know that I never, I mean I didn't . . ." He broke off with a frustrated noise. He shook his head. "I don't know if I can make it up to you—"

"Don't. Shh." Sarah shook her head and closed her eyes. She couldn't bear to hear him speak, no more words of remorse. Her stomach churned again, but the nausea was different this time. Emotional nausea. Nausea of the heart.

She wasn't going to accept second best any longer. She couldn't – she loved him too much. The knowledge would eat away at her soul until there wasn't any joy left in her.

Turning him down shredded her heart. She loved him, almost enough to accept second best. But she knew she was only opening herself up to a world of hurt. What would happen the next time Lisa Cuddy needed a shoulder to cry on?

"Sarah, please, let me . . ."

She opened her eyes and he trailed off.

"I can't . . ." She managed to say before her throat closed off the words.

Their gaze held for a moment and she knew when he shut her out. She saw the shutters come down, saw him retreat behind his carefully maintained defenses. His eyes were red-rimmed, but whether it was from brimming tears or drugs or alcohol she didn't know.

"So that's it, then," he said.

Sarah wanted to say something, but she knew she'd never get words out past the lump in her throat, an ache threatening to burst out of her in loud, inelegant sobs. Instead she swallowed, a noisy sound in the quiet room.

He nodded, turned on his heel and was gone.

She managed to hold it in until he disappeared from view. Then the tears came, hot and heavy over her cheeks. She felt like she'd cry forever, that there could be no end to this sorrow, but what felt like a moment later, Sophie was shaking her awake, asking her those infuriating questions, then wiping her face with a soft, wet cloth and a look of understanding that only made Sarah want to cry all over again.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: **Thank you to everyone who left reviews for the last chapter, especially those of you who came out of lurkdom to do so. I really can't express just how lovely the reward of those reviews is, especially when you put lots of time and effort into writing and publishing a story.

For those of you taking a break at this time of year, hope you have a wonderful, restful time. Personally, I can't wait to sleep-in, chow-down on a large amount of chocolate, and spend some more time writing instead of working...

* * *

House was quaking as he made his way back to his office. But whether it was with grief, or anger, or just from the hangover, he couldn't say.

At the elevator, he got caught behind two women. One had grey, thinning hair, the other, younger, brunette, held her elbow in support.

"He's supposed to be a really good doctor, Mom," the younger one said.

"I know, that's what I heard."

"He's the best and we'll get him, I promise. I'll make sure of it."

The mom gave her daughter a weak smile. "I know."

"They said that if anyone can find the right treatment, it will be him."

House figured they were probably talking about Wilson. He was generally the only doctor that prompted patients to such grand praise. His guess was confirmed when they stepped in the elevator and pressed the button for the oncology floor, a level below his office.

It was a surprise when, as the elevator arrived at their floor, the daughter said, "Once you get settled I'll go and find Doctor House's office."

"You're looking for Doctor House?" House asked.

The daughter looked startled. The mom looked too sick to muster the energy for startled.

"Yeah, do you know him?" the daughter asked.

"What's your name?" he asked the mom as the two stepped out of the elevator.

"Cantrell, Meredith Cantrell."

House nodded. "I'll have one of his team look into your case."

The daughter's eyes welled with tears. "Thank you. Oh, thank you."

"There's no guarantees," House warned.

"I know, of course, I understand," the daughter gushed. "But if we could just get my Mom's case looked at by him . . ."

The elevator doors closed and just in time, House thought. His momentary lapse of judgment was enough without having to put up with more gushing, undeserved gratitude.

As he reached his office he swung past the conference room and asked his team to pick up Meredith Cantrell's case. And then ordered them not to disturb him.

The IV was still waiting and he figured it wouldn't do any harm to finish the bag. Setting it up next to his Eames chair, he rolled up his sleeve, sunk the needle into place and lay back and closed his eyes.

He'd really made a mess of his life.

An image of Hanna swam in front of his eyes. She looked reproachful, as if she were about to lecture him.

"No way," he said aloud to the empty room. "I've been there before, not doing it again. No more conversations with dead people. I don't even believe in ghosts."

A sudden thought chilled him.

_Ghosts._ He didn't believe in them, and yet he'd let his life become ruled by them.

Hanna's ghost – and those of all the patients who'd died since her – were following him around, stopping him from being the doctor he knew he was capable of being. The doctor that Meredith Cantrell and her daughter put so much faith in.

What exactly was it that was holding him back? He still had the fascination for puzzles that he'd always had. So what was it then?

_He'd lost his nerve. _

Being a doctor called for a certain amount of comfort with risk. Even a humble clinic doctor had to be prepared for the fact that a patient they'd given Tylenol for a headache could drop dead of an aneurysm an hour after they walked out.

House was no longer comfortable with the risk. He didn't want people to die. He'd been taking the safe route with all his patients – and, when that wasn't possible – just absenting himself so his team had to make the decisions for him. But instead of reducing the risk, he'd only increased it. He'd had more patients die in the past few months than at any other time in his career.

It had to stop.

The other ghost that had been haunting him was more of an idea than a person. The idea he'd had that Cuddy would always be there. That no matter how old and lonely and twisted he got, if he tried hard enough, he could win her. She was his default. His fall-back position. If no-one better came along, she'd do.

It was pretty insulting to Cuddy, now that he came to think about it. Was it any wonder that she'd gone and found someone else? She wasn't a library book he could put an indefinite hold on. She was a woman who wanted a family. A husband and children, and House had been fooling himself if he'd thought she'd hang around waiting until he was ready.

Not to mention the fact that he'd been a complete idiot not to recognize it when someone better _had_ come along.

Sarah was almost as fucked up as he was. Subservient to that bitch of a sister. Her upbringing warped and twisted, taking away her childhood too soon. A submissive in the bedroom who got off on sexual power games and pseudo-rape fantasies that he was only too happy to provide.

She had fitted into his life so easily, he'd not taken the time to properly think through what it meant. What _she_ meant.

Until now. And she was gone.

He'd pushed her too far. His performance last night, his agonizing, mortifyingly embarrassing _need_ – who could put up with that? It was lunacy to expect anything different. She'd said she could deal with his addiction, she'd even convinced him that she could cope. She'd done so much better so far than anyone else in his life had managed; Wilson, Cuddy.

And yet when things had got dire, when he'd pushed her, _really_ pushed her, she'd folded in the face of his need. He couldn't blame her.

So he couldn't have – didn't want – Cuddy.

And he couldn't have Sarah.

But oh, he still wanted _her_.

Maybe she just needed time. Maybe if he gave her space, the opportunity to think things through, he could have one last go at convincing her. At showing her that he wasn't going to let the Vicodin get in their way – not again. He could do it – if she just gave him the chance, he was sure of it.

In the meantime, at least he could go back to being a damned good doctor.

The IV was empty, and he pulled out the needle, flexing his arm to restore the circulation. At his desk, he made a phone call. To Margaret Simons, the director of nursing at Sarah's respite centre. He understood why she didn't want Charlie, but she needed someone. And then he threw open the doors to the conference room and the wary looks of his team.

"Right. Meredith Cantrell. Who can tell me what's going on?"

* * *

Sarah managed to grab the mail out of the mailbox, but that was as far as her body was going to take her. She put the grocery bag on the floor and sank down until she was sitting on the stairs facing the entry to the building.

It had been too soon to try to walk to the store and back – now she wondered where she'd find the energy to climb the stairs to her apartment.

But the cabin fever had been making her crazy. After three days in hospital she'd spent another three days at home, recovering. She felt fine – and was lucky enough to have escaped any serious side effects from the poisoning – but she was still weak and tired easily. She wasn't cleared to go back to work for another few days, but sitting around going through the backlist on her Netflix wasn't half as much fun as most people imagined. With first-hand experience of the dangers of depressive thinking that could arise through a lonely recovery, she'd prescribed herself a walk, but perhaps she'd been too ambitious.

She sat there, catching her breath, trying hard not to look at the door to apartment B that shone bright green in the wintery sunlight.

There was the unmistakable sound of a key in the lock and Sarah froze, her stomach clenched tight.

So far she'd managed to avoid Greg House and hadn't seen him since he'd come to her hospital room on the day she'd been admitted. Since she'd been discharged, she'd made an effort to keep her ears peeled to the noises of his comings and goings – listening keenly to the muted sounds of his plumbing, the television even, just once and briefly, his piano playing. She'd told herself that it was to avoid running into him in the hallway. Given today was the first time she'd actually managed to leave the apartment, though, she had to admit that she wasn't being entirely honest with herself.

The door swung wide and Sarah's panic abated. It was the super, Sergei. With a broad smile on his usually dour face. The smile dropped as soon as he saw her sitting on the stairs.

"Miz Sarah!"

He took a couple of running steps to her side. But his presence did nothing but make her anxiety return triple-fold, as the cause of his big smile was revealed in the gap he'd left on the doorstep.

"Sez!"

Charlie stood on the doorstep in all her carefully-casual splendor.

_No._ Sarah didn't have the energy to climb the stairs. She certainly didn't have the energy for her sister.

She mustered a smile. "Hi Charlie."

Between Sergei and Charlie, Sarah was hustled up the stairs, tut-tutting and reprimands from both of them on her attempt at autonomy. She tried to explain that hadn't really needed to go to the grocery store – to her surprise and pleasure, Margaret Simons from the centre had arranged a twice-daily visit from one of their nurses and they brought Sarah everything she needed – it had just been an excuse to get outside.

In the apartment, Sergei hung around, fiddling with the blinds, straightening the rug on the floor and making a big show of checking the fireplace. There was nothing wrong with it – _now_ – and Sarah had a top-of-the-range electronic carbon monoxide monitor on the mantelpiece – she'd found it in her mailbox when she'd returned from hospital. She'd decided to believe that the fire department had left it for her.

"Thanks for all your help Sergei," Sarah said, after his lingering presence had started to become uncomfortable. Well for her, anyway. Charlie just sat on the sofa and preened, picking invisible lint from her Armani sweater. Any attention was enough as far as she was concerned.

"You sure you okay?" he asked.

"Very sure." Sarah got up from the chair she'd collapsed in to show him out, even though it was the last thing she felt like doing.

"You call if need anything," he said.

"I will, thanks again Sergei."

"Goodbye Miss Charlotte," he called out, edging backwards as Sarah tried to close the door. "Very lovely to be seeing you."

Sarah closed the door on his inane grin and collapsed back into the chair with a sigh of relief. She just needed to sit for a moment, then she might find the energy to go to the bathroom – which was fast becoming a pressing need. And maybe then she'd find the space to talk with Charlie.

Charlie jumped up from the sofa with a brittle, slightly manic energy that Sarah belatedly noticed. "Do you want a drink? A coffee?" Her eyes were bright. Too bright.

Sarah nodded and tried to keep her sigh inside. "Actually yeah, that'd be great."

Charlie disappeared into the kitchen.

A moment later she called out, "How does this coffee maker work?"

Sarah's head dropped back against the chair and this time she sighed aloud. "Just a minute." Mustering her last bit of strength, she managed to make her way into the kitchen and work with a jittery Charlie to produce two cups of coffee and a plate of cookies.

By the time she'd sat back in the chair and pulled a blanket over her knees, she'd decided that she was never moving again.

"It's nice of you to come Charlie, but I told you—"

"Of course I was going to come. I can't believe you waited until you were out of hospital to let me know!" Charlie pouted, her knees jiggling as she nibbled tiny bites from the edges of her cookie.

"I just thought it was easier. It would be hard to manage your visit if you'd come to see me while I was still in the hospital."

Charlie shrugged. "I guess."

"And you really didn't need to come. I'm feeling much better—"

"Don't you want me here?"

"Oh Charlie, it's not that, it's just—"

"I came all the way from New York. I've been doing a shoot with Marie Claire today. I finished early to come visit you."

Sarah managed a smile. "It's lovely to see you. I'm glad you came." And she was, mostly. It was nice to see her sister – despite her clearly chemically enhanced state – after having had a close brush with her own mortality. It was just that she was still feeling so fragile. All that on top of what had happened with Greg . . .

"Is someone looking after you?"

"Yeah, I've got nurses coming from the centre each day to check on me and run errands for me. And I should be fine to go back to work next week. I've already started checking emails and working remotely for a couple of hours each day."

Charlie's eyes narrowed. "What about Greg? Is he helping?"

Sarah paused. She blew out a breath before answering. "Greg and I broke up."

"Bastard!" Charlie exclaimed.

Sarah shook her head. "No, it was me – I broke up with him."

"What? Why? I thought you loved him."

"I did . . . I _do_."

"Then why?"

Sarah couldn't answer. _Why?_ She'd been tearing herself apart over that very question for days now. Was second best really so bad? Was it better than to have him, knowing he'd never feel for her what she felt for him, rather than not having him at all?

"Oh Sez, you're better off without him."

Charlie leaned over, offering her the box of tissues. Sarah grabbed one – she hadn't even realized the tears were rolling down her face.

She sniffed. "I'm not sure about that," she said, her voice strangled.

"Of course you are."

And then, even knowing that Charlie wasn't the best person to trust with the information, Sarah found herself telling the story, talking about Lisa, about the cancer scare, about how Greg had run to be by her side.

"He is a bastard," Charlie said at the end.

"Yeah, but the problem is . . . I think I still love him."

"That'll wear off. It always does. I've never loved anyone for longer than six months. I think in six months you get to know someone and then the love isn't enough anymore to overcome their faults."

Sarah shook her head, feeling a strange sympathy for her sister. Clearly Charlie had never _really_ loved anyone. Because when you loved someone, learning about their faults, accepting them for who they were, _that _was what made love grow stronger. Like Greg: he snored, he never picked up after himself, he got obsessed with his work, he was addicted to Vicodin, _he was in love with someone else_ . . .

There was a sharp rap at the door, interrupting the conversation. Sarah couldn't help but be a little grateful. She'd already shared more than she thought was wise. It was an unsettling feeling being vulnerable in her sister's presence. She wasn't sure if it was because she didn't trust Charlie, or because it was just the first time Sarah had allowed it to happen. Perhaps both.

"Want me to get it?" Charlie asked. She was still incredibly fidgety and she jumped up from the sofa before Sarah answered.

"Sure. It's probably Mrs Beddingfield, my neighbor across the hall, or one of the nurses from the centre."

Charlie opened the door and Sarah blew her nose, hoping she didn't look too blotchy from crying.

A strange silence made her raise her head and look to the door.

The last person she expected to see.

The way he and Charlie were staring at each other was almost comical.

"Greg?" Sarah asked, wishing her voice didn't sound so faint and weak.

He side-stepped Charlie, coming in to the apartment, and sprawled himself on one side of the sofa.

"There's a limo and two bodyguards outside," he said.

Charlie shrugged and closed the door, taking her seat on the sofa next to Greg, still eyeing him suspiciously.

Greg ignored her. "So I thought I'd come and see if you were okay."

Sarah blinked, not sure what to say.

"Excuse me," she said eventually. She needed to pee, badly – had needed to since halfway back from the store. And her brain had stopped functioning at having him sitting in her apartment again. She could only process one thing at a time. Going to the bathroom seemed the simplest thing to worry about.

In the bathroom she leaned against the tile wall, pressing her suddenly hot face to the cool surface. It made her skin ripple with goose bumps. God, it hurt so much to just see him.

It took several minutes before she could remember to breathe evenly and she recalled why she'd come to the bathroom in the first place. She peed and washed her hands and steeled herself for walking back into the living room. As she made her way down the hall, she realized she'd left her ex-boyfriend and her sister alone, sitting on the same sofa, for several minutes. In her experience, that wasn't usually a recipe for sunshine and puppies.

And so it was with an overwhelming sense of both resignation and futile anger that she stopped in the doorway to watch Charlie's arms tighten around Greg's back, strands of blonde hair shifting over his shoulder as they kissed.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N:** Hi all. Second-last chapter! Just one more to go plus a brief epilogue, and I'll probably post both of them the same time. Thanks again to you all for your support and for staying with this angsty ride that House and Sarah have endured!

* * *

"Get off me." His voice was a low growl, Sarah thought, a threat that would have most people quaking to do his bidding.

Charlie just lifted her lips from his then cocked her head on the side and gave a fake frown. "Really? You don't want _this_?" She gestured to herself.

"No, I don't."

"Come on, everyone wants _me_." Charlie gave him a calculated smile. "Kiss me. Then I can tell Sarah what an asshole you are and she can move on."

"Is that what this is about?"

"It's how I protect Sarah from bastards like you."

"By stealing them from her?"

"Just for a while. Then I dump them and Sarah and I move on."

"You really are a bitch."

Charlie's eyes widened and she shifted herself off him. "Excuse me?"

"I thought I was pretty much the most selfish and self-involved person I'd ever met, but you—"

Having sat back on the sofa, Charlie was facing the hallway and Sarah saw her eyes light up with triumph as she saw Sarah standing there. It must have been clear from the expression on her face that she'd seen what had happened.

Greg broke off, twisting around, his face thunderous. "Sarah don't even begin to tell me you believed that little scene you just witnessed."

Sarah didn't believe there was anything to the kiss she'd just witnessed but a lifetime's experience with her sister was hard to overcome and, against all logic, the feelings of betrayal still welled inside her.

Greg stood up, his body bristling with anger. "Right, I've had it with manipulative, selfish women _and_ altruistic selfless ones. Charlie, get out." He pointed at the door.

Charlie smiled, a sinister, snakelike expression. "No. _You_ get out. You think Sarah's going to choose you after everything you've done?"

"Not if she has an ounce of self-preservation, no. But I think you've beaten that out of her, Charlie, so maybe I do stand a chance."

"You asshole." Charlie stood up, hands on hips, clearly ready to take him on. "My sister is too good for you. Why aren't you back with your little cancer-cry-wolf girlfriend? You dumped Sarah as soon as something better came along."

"Yeah, just like you do," he shot back. "And just like everyone else in her life has done. But unlike you, I've learned my lesson."

"Stop it!" Sarah stepped into the living room with her hands raised. She only just stopped herself from putting them over her ears to block out the argument like a child.

Charlie and Greg fell silent, both of them looking at her. Charlie seemed a little shocked, but her cheeks were pink and her eyes glowed with more than just the chemical high they'd had before. _She was enjoying this_.

Greg's face was flushed too, but the look in his eyes was desperate and wild. Sarah didn't understand why Charlie wasn't terrified.

"Get out," Sarah said. She couldn't cope with either of them.

"Yeah, Greg, get out," Charlie added.

"You too," Sarah said through gritted teeth.

Charlie's eyes widened, almost comically. "Me? You want me to leave?"

"Both of you – get out."

Greg gave a short nod. "Fair enough. Come on Charlie, get out of here." He grabbed his cane and began using it to herd Charlie toward the door like she was a stray sheep.

"But Sez, I came all this way and I wanted to . . ."

Sarah screwed up her eyes as if it would block out her sister's pleading. Because of that she didn't see what happened next, but there was the sound of shuffling, a hastily slammed door and then muffled shouts and furious banging.

When she opened her eyes, Greg was leaning against the door with a triumphant grin and Charlie's muffled shouts of indignation were coming from the hallway.

"Got her," he said gleefully.

Sarah sighed and shook her head. "Greg, I meant it. I want you to go too."

"I will," he said, the grin dropping from his face. "But you have to hear me out first."

* * *

The muffled shouts and thumps on the door continued, but House blocked them out. Charlie would get tired of it soon enough, or she'd break a nail, and she'd give up. Sarah could explain it away later.

"I don't think there's anything left to say," Sarah said. She looked so tired, pale, with purple smudges under her eyes. House itched to order her to bed, to tuck her next to him and make her rest until that pink glow he loved came back to her face. The thought that he might not see her like that again intensified the hollowed-out feeling he'd been living with these past few days. A feeling that had led him here – doing something he'd never thought he'd do: plead for a second chance.

"Sarah!" Charlie screamed from the hallway. Maybe he'd underestimated her determination.

"She's not going to go away," Sarah sighed.

"Make her," House said.

Sarah shook her head slowly in a way that wasn't quite denial. At least that's what House chose to believe.

"Make her go away," he insisted. "Then sit and listen to me. After that I'll leave you alone too."

She hesitated and for a moment House felt a sense of dread creep over him. What if it was too late? What if he couldn't convince her to try again?

A little ray of hope: Sarah took a step. And then another step. She walked over to him, waved at him to move his bulk from where he rested against the door, and she opened it, just as far as the chain he'd slid into place would allow.

"Sarah! What's going on? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine Charlie. I think Greg and I need to talk, okay? Can I call you later?"

"Don't fall for it, Sarah! He's a liar. He's an addict and an asshole and he's in love with another woman."

"She's right on two out of three anyway," House muttered.

Sarah gave him a confused frown at that, but then turned her attention back to the hallway. "I'll be careful Charlie. I'll call you later, okay?"

"Isn't it about time you 'powdered your nose' again anyway, Charlie?" House called out. It wasn't hard to pick Charlie's chemical of choice – today, anyway.

Sarah's frown this time wasn't confused, it was angry. House shrugged.

"Asshole!" Charlie yelled.

"Takes one to know one," House yelled back.

"Children!" Sarah's sharp tone was a contrast to her slumped shoulders. House felt momentarily chastised, but more because of how defeated Sarah looked, not because of anything he'd said to Charlie. He didn't regret any of that.

"I'll call you later, Charlie," Sarah said before closing the door.

House was sure he could hear the huff from the hallway, but neither of them missed the stomping footsteps that led away from the door and slowly disappeared down the stairs.

"Greg, I'm really tired," Sarah began.

"I know. I can see. You should be in bed."

A couple of pink spots appeared on her cheeks and House had to stop himself from smiling. Just hearing him talk about "bed", even in the invalid sense, made her blush. Maybe he had a chance after all.

"What did you want to talk about?" she asked.

Sarah lowered herself into a chair, as he made himself comfortable on the sofa – without Charlie beside him this time. The sofa was far more comfortable as a result. It could only have been better if Sarah was there, cuddled next to him.

He sucked in a deep breath, readying himself for the most important conversation of his life. He needed her to listen, to understand, to forgive. He didn't know how it could live with himself if she didn't.

"I want to talk to you about a patient," he said.

* * *

Sarah wondered if her disappointment showed on her face. "You want to talk to me about a patient?"

"Yeah." Greg was starting to look a little less confident now that his triumph over Charlie was fading.

"Okay," Sarah said uncertainly, wondering what this was really about.

"I diagnosed someone with APS2." There was no mistaking the pride in his voice.

"Good for you." Sarah's heart sank. Had he really come here just to boast about his latest medical conquest?

"No, no, you don't understand. She's been sick for years and she was about to see her last Christmas. Dozens of doctors, specialists, no one picked it. I talked to her, I realized she had diabetes – no one else had picked it up. And then I noticed her alopecia. It was a really unusual presentation – only mild Addison's symptoms and she didn't have . . ."

And off he went. Reeling off the medical jargon, talking at her as if she were at a medical conference and he was presenting a case. If nothing else it underlined just how talented, how special and unique his talents were. Sarah wished there was some way to get inside his brain and see how he organized his thoughts – if more people had his capacity to retain information and see patterns in the interconnectedness of things, the world would surely be a better place. That or a much, much worse one.

He finished his story, eyes sparkling, almost a kind of glow about him. She'd never seen it before. It was like a cat she and Charlie had had for a while when they been kids. It would kill a bird or a mouse and then bring it before them to show what it had done, sitting back and licking its paws, so immensely pleased with itself, while they squealed in revulsion.

He rubbed his shoulder absently, staring at her, waiting for her to respond.

And then it clicked.

This was Greg House as he _should_ be. The thrill of a diagnostic puzzle, solved thanks to hard work and ingenuity. This was what he lived for. This was what had been missing from his life these past few months.

She watched his fingers move, unconsciously rubbing at the scar he'd given himself.

"What's going on with your shoulder?" Sarah asked.

He looked at his hand and frowned, as if noticing for the first time what he was doing. "I dunno. But it itches like crazy."

"It's healing," Sarah said.

"It's already healed," he said dismissively.

"No, I mean it's _really_ healing." She felt tears threaten again. "Hanna went away," Sarah whispered.

A small smile curved his mouth. "I knew you'd get it."

A lump formed in her throat. He didn't love her, but she loved him, and she was so happy to see him like this, it almost overwhelmed her.

His smile faded and he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He looked into her fireplace, not at her. "Sarah. I know I fucked up."

Sarah blinked slowly. This was what she had been dreading. If he apologized, begged for another chance, she didn't know how she'd resist. But she had to remember: as soon as Lisa had thrown a crumb his way, he'd dumped her and ran. Now that his first choice was no longer available, good old Sarah was back in his sights. Living with that knowledge would eat away at her. She would never be good enough.

"I'm broken. I'm an addict and more than occasionally I'm an asshole too. I can't promise that what happened last week will never happen again. But I can promise that I want to try. I want . . ." His voice broke, and he took in a breath and blew it out before he spoke again. "I want to be the man you deserve." He reached into a bag Sarah belatedly noticed sitting at his feet and pulled out a beribboned box. "Here."

Sarah frowned as she reached out and took the gift. She undid the pink satin ribbon with one pull and lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in white tissue paper was an orange vial of Vicodin.

"It's the same one. You can count the pills," he offered.

Sarah shook her head, staring at the bizarre gift. Eventually she lifted her eyes to his, knowing she looked as confused as she felt. "Sorry Greg, but . . . what on earth does this mean?"

* * *

"What do you mean, what does it mean?" House spluttered. He thought he'd done it perfectly. He was giving her his trust – in the hope she might give him hers. "I'm asking you to try again. To . . . hold on to this for me."

"You want me to keep your Vicodin?"

"Yes, like we agreed. You keep it, and if I need one, I come and ask you for it."

Sarah took in a deep but shaky breath. She still seemed genuinely confused. "I don't see how that can work, Greg. Why don't you ask one of your friends?"

"Because you live in the building," he said. _It was obvious, wasn't it?_

"Then maybe you should try Sergei."

"But . . ." Then realization sunk in. She was turning him down. Warring instincts battled inside him. His first and overwhelming response was to get up and walk out. But he knew he couldn't. He couldn't go back to the emptiness that waited. He _needed_ to make her understand.

"Sarah, I'm telling you that I want to work on this. I don't want to be defined by my addiction to Vicodin anymore." He struggled to find the words, irritated that she was making him explain himself and hadn't just understood what he meant from the metaphor of the gift. When he'd plotted this out in his mind, they'd been kissing by now.

"That's great, Greg."

She gave him a smile that came off as false and condescending to House's eyes. He struggled to keep his temper. He was trying to apologize. Yelling at her, even if it was only out of frustration with himself, wouldn't be a great way to proceed.

"I'll go back to Mayfield if you want me to. I'll go back to therapy." He had a sudden realization that giving her the pills was a really, really stupid idea. "You're right, I shouldn't give you the pills. That's only making you have to deal with it. I'm trying to say . . . _Hell_."

He stood up and paced the room, tunneling his fingers through his hair. He turned to face her. She sat patiently, winding the ribbon from the box absently around one hand. She looked so frail, dwarfed by the oversized chair. And so tired and ill. He thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

He'd spent the past five days talking himself into this. Diagnosing Meredith Cantrell had brought his mojo back and it had had nothing to do with anyone else. He'd done it, he'd worked hard, got involved with a patient, and worked out what was wrong. There was no cure for her condition, but there were treatments – and at least she and her daughter could rest now that they had _answers_.

The satisfaction had lasted all of a day before emptiness had clawed its way back. The emptiness was a Sarah-shaped hole in his life. He missed her presence, her gentle influence, the lightness she brought into his otherwise miserable existence.

He realized then he was prepared to do whatever it took to take her back. If it meant never having Vicodin again in his life, he'd do it. He wasn't sure if he could succeed, but he'd die trying.

How could explain?

"I'm trying to tell you . . ." he began. "I know what I did that night was unforgiveable. But I'm asking you to forgive me."

He was sure he could see tears welling in her eyes and he hoped like hell she wasn't going to cry. He'd lose it if he made her cry – again.

"I forgive you," she said simply.

He opened his mouth to argue before her words sunk in. "You forgive me?"

"Of course."

He shook his head. "So then . . . why?"

"Why what?"

"Why aren't we kissing right now? Why am I not removing your bra at this very second?"

"I forgive you, Greg. I know you will always have to work hard to battle your addiction. I know most of the time you'll succeed and sometimes – hopefully rarely – you might fail. What's important is that _you_ know that, and now I know you do."

"So again, why aren't we playing with each other's genitals right now?"

She winced, and shook her head, biting her bottom lip with her front teeth.

"I don't understand what's going on here. I'm admitting to you that I'm going to try harder to keep the Vicodin under control. You've said you're okay with that. What more do you need me to say?"

Sarah closed her eyes and one fat teardrop slid down her face. It broke House's heart to see it.

"I can't do it," she whispered. It was so quiet for a moment he wondered if he'd really heard it or just imagined it.

His stomach twisted. Yet again, his addiction had fucked up his life.

"I'm sorry Greg." Her eyes opened and they were shiny with unshed tears. "I just can't be second-best. I love you, so very much, but knowing I wasn't your first choice would eat away at me. It would destroy what we have. I know how it works . . . I've been there before. I can't do it again."

"Second best?" House echoed. His breath caught as a wave of realization swept over him.

It wasn't about the Vicodin.

Her decision had nothing to do with his addiction.

If anything, it was worse.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N:** Well everyone, here we are - the end of the tale! I decided to post the epilogue in with this chapter instead of separately, I think it makes more sense for you to be able to read straight through.

Thank you all so much for your support and comments. I know it's been a slightly different ride to what you usually expect from me, but thank you for your faith and patience. I've been very glad to have you along with me on this journey. G

* * *

For the entire length of his relationship with Sarah, Cuddy had been a third passenger along for the ride, House realized. Whether that was literally – like when he'd called her name – or figuratively, she'd been there. Ever since the very beginning when Sarah had found him sitting on the bathroom floor, dealing with the loss of Hanna – except what he'd really been dealing with was the loss of Cuddy.

The loss of the _idea_ he had of Cuddy. The idea of how his life might work out. In clinging to that fantasy, he'd destroyed an even better reality.

He'd pushed away the only person who really understood him. The only person who seemed prepared to accept that his life was destined to be a rollercoaster of occasional highs and devastating lows. The only person who'd been prepared to work with that, to suggest options, to believe he had the ability to be better. She didn't ask him to do better, she just knew he could. And she was prepared to take the long and exhausting journey with him as he struggled to find that out for himself.

She'd been prepared to put up with him. She'd already lived through life with an addict, so she knew what she was signing up for.

But he'd thrown her patience, her love, and her fragile _trust_, away when the ghost of Cuddy had tantalized him.

The real Sarah was worth a billion fantasy Cuddys.

Only how could he prove it to her?

"Oh Sarah," he sighed and rubbed at his shoulder again. "I really, really fucked this up."

Sarah just sniffed.

He knew that just telling her, simply protesting that he'd changed his mind would do nothing to convince her. There had to be a way to show her his true feelings, a way to get her to understand what had happened. He had a sudden flash of insight.

This was one conversation he had to get right.

"What did you want to be when you grew up?" he asked suddenly, dragging an ottoman over so he could sit in front of Sarah.

"Huh?" She looked puzzled by the change of subject. She reached for a tissue and blew her nose.

"When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?" House repeated. "And don't say a nurse. I've heard the Halloween costume story and I don't believe you."

Pink spots appeared on her cheeks. "What has this got to do with—"

"Just answer the question. And don't lie." He narrowed his eyes. "I'm good at knowing when people lie."

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, sucking in a deep breath.

"Tell me," he said.

"An actor, okay? I wanted to be an actor." Her voice was loud.

House nodded. He'd suspected as much. More pieces of the complex web that threaded between Sarah and Charlie fell into place. "Because you love movies."

"I love movies," she repeated, more quietly this time. "I wanted to study film. I did a few auditions when I was a teenager, but I didn't get very far. So I thought maybe I'd become a director instead."

"But then you studied nursing. Why?"

"Mom's health was deteriorating. Alcoholics get sick a lot. I just thought it would be useful if . . ." She trailed off.

"So you went off to study nursing, your mom died, and your sister got the career that you wanted, without even trying. Because she was beautiful."

Sarah's mouth open and then shut again. She just shrugged one shoulder in acknowledgement.

"If you could back and change things – if you could have Charlie's career and she had yours, would you?"

She sighed heavily. "This is pointless. It's just meaningless speculation . . ."

House played a card he'd been holding on to. He grabbed the arms of Sarah's chair, effectively trapping her, and lowered his voice to the commanding tone he'd used with her before – albeit in different circumstances. "Sarah, answer the question."

Sarah fidgeted in her chair and he wondered for a moment if she wasn't going to fall for it.

"No," she said quietly. "No, I wouldn't change it."

"Why not?"

"It hasn't been smooth sailing, and it didn't turn out the way I thought it might, but I think I've finally found where I belong. I love working at the centre. I work with a great group of people, the patients are really deserving of our care, and I get a thrill every time I get a new donor so we can offer a place to someone who can't afford it themselves. And . . . since I've been sick, did you know that the nurses have been taking it in turns to come and check on me? They've brought meals, and my meds, and company. It's been so lovely."

He nodded. He'd been getting daily updates from Margaret Simons, under the guise of being Sarah's concerned treating doctor. But he knew first-hand that Sarah had been getting excellent care and that her staff respected and admired her.

"So you love your work," he said. "But it took you a while to realize that – to stop being jealous of what Charlie has."

Sarah shifted uncomfortably. "It took a while. But I know now that I couldn't live the way she does, the travel, the publicity, no privacy."

"But that doesn't stop you dreaming about what might have been."

"No I guess not."

"And if Stephen Spielberg walked in here today and asked you to work for him – you'd do it, wouldn't you? Just to know what it was like."

She rolled her eyes again, clearly getting impatient with his game of _let's pretend_. "Yeah, I guess I would. Just to try it out."

House sat back on the ottoman. "Okay, now let me tell you about the little fantasy I had about my life."

"If you tell me you didn't want to be a doctor from the time you were in diapers, I won't believe you."

House managed a smile. "Maybe not diapers. And there was a time in my teens when I was pretty convinced I was going to be a rock star, but it's not about that."

"Then what?"

"I had this fantasy that one day I'd end up with Cuddy."

Sarah sucked in a breath – clearly that wasn't what she'd been expecting him to say. But House continued, conscious all the while of how critical his words were.

"It wasn't something I worked towards, or planned for, or even thought about consciously. It was just there, in the back of my mind. One day we'd be together. And then she took that away, she met someone else. And of course she could do that – she had every right to do that – because it wasn't like I'd let her know."

She squirmed. "Greg, you don't have to . . ."

"Yes, I do. I need you to understand. I had this idea of what was going to happen in my life, an idea that got shattered when she announced she was engaged."

"The day of the crane collapse," Sarah added.

He nodded. "Exactly. But . . . don't you see? It was just an idea, not reality. But when Cuddy offered me a chance that things might go that way, I'm ashamed to say that I wanted to take it. It was such an ingrained part of who I thought I was – I . . . I don't believe in crap like _fate_, but there was this thing that I thought I always wanted, but couldn't have, and suddenly it was dropped in my lap."

Sarah shook her head. "Admitting I'd work for Stephen Spielberg to fulfill a childhood dream is a little different to running off with another woman."

"I know. I know it's different." He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his wits. He needed to make this work. This was one metaphor that he couldn't allow to fail. When he opened his eyes he stared into her tired, confused hazel ones, willing her to see the truth.

"I don't love Cuddy. I never did – not in any meaningful sense. If I had loved her, I'd have wanted to be with her, not decided she could wait for _me_ to be ready. I know now . . . I know that when you love someone, you want to be with them. You believe in them for who they are, not who they might be. You want to share their life, protect them, take care of them. Be with them for the good and the bad "

Sarah swallowed hard, and her gaze didn't waver. For the first time since he'd walked in, House began to feel that he just might win this.

"Like when you see a limo and bodyguards out the front, and know that the person you love is probably having a tough enough time without having to cope with her sister on top of all that."

She brushed over the admission in what he'd said. "Yeah, so you come upstairs and get in a fight, because that's so much easier to cope with."

"You can't tell me Charlie didn't enjoy that." House certainly had. Except for the kissing. That had been just plain creepy.

"_I_ didn't enjoy that."

Right. _Focus. _"I want to take care of you. I want to be with you."

House could tell he was winning, her expression was softening. But she wasn't ready to give in just yet. "You said you couldn't guarantee what happened that night wouldn't happen again."

"I meant the Vicodin!"

Sarah shook her head and House had a moment of panic. She was right – how much better was it that he'd been talking about his raging addiction instead of his betrayal? What was he doing here? Why was he trying to convince this wonderful woman to accept him – an old, crippled misanthrope who was likely better off keeping company with his own miserable self?

Because he couldn't live without her.

"I don't deserve you. I know that. But you are my first and only choice, Sarah Hardiman. I'm sorry it took me so long to work that out."

"First and only?" Tears welled in her eyes.

"I promise. I love you." He took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "That is, if you still want to be bothered with me. I'm kind of a handful."

She managed a laugh that was half a sob, but her eyes, shiny with tears, also glowed with happiness. House felt something click inside him, a homecoming, a peace, a sense that for too long he'd chased after what he thought he wanted, while right here, in front of him, was what he'd _needed_ all along.

"I think I can handle you," she said quietly.

"Good. Because I'd like you to start _handling_ me right now."

She screwed up her nose. "You do like to push it, don't you?"

"Always," he promised. Then he dropped his voice. "But for now I'm giving the orders. I know you like it when I do that."

Sarah gave him a regretful look. "Greg, I'm sorry, I don't think I can right now. I'm just so—"

"Bed. Now," he ordered.

"Greg, seriously – I'm exhausted."

"What, you want me to carry you? I _am_ a cripple, but I can probably—" He bent down to hitch her knees over his arm.

"No!" Sarah protested. "Don't, I can do it."

House could see the struggle on her face as she levered herself out of the chair and began to walk to the bedroom. He wrapped an arm around her waist to support her, cursing silently that he _couldn't_ sweep her into his arms in a classic Clarke Gable maneuver.

It took only a few moments to strip off her sweat pants and socks, find the nightgown she'd tucked behind the pillow and help her take off her sweatshirt and bra. He couldn't deny the effect her naked breasts had on him, but there were other, more important things to think about for the moment.

Once the nightgown was slipped over her head, Sarah laid back on the pillows and pulled the quilt up with a sweet sigh.

"What do you feel like?" House asked, sitting on the bed beside her.

"Honestly?" She arched an eyebrow. He nodded for her to go on. "A glass of water and about ten hours' sleep."

"Done." The glass of water was simple. When he returned to the bedroom, he stripped off his own clothing down to boxers, then climbed into bed. Once he had Sarah settled into the crook of his neck, her body pressed against the length of his, he finally felt able to breathe again.

He'd come so close to losing this.

Sarah rubbed her cheek on his shoulder. "I don't sleep well when you're not beside me," she said quietly.

"So is that all I am to you? A sleep aid?" he asked, joking – but there was a thread of uncertainty there. He could hear it, and he knew Sarah could.

"If I needed a sleep aid, I'd have you write me a script for Ambien. You like writing me scripts – remember?"

He grimaced as he recalled the memory. He'd really been an ass to her. And yet she'd come back for more. It was a positive sign.

But not quite enough.

"No more scripts when conversations are required," he promised.

"I like the sound of that."

"Does that go for you, too?" he asked.

"Huh?" Sarah lifted her head from his shoulder so she could meet his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I pretty much bared my soul out there in the living room – but as of yet there hasn't been any reciprocation. Are you going to write me a note?"

Sarah's lips parted in horror as she realized what he was saying. "I didn't say it?"

"Nope."

"But you already know. I said it before."

"Yeah, you did. But a guy's ego can only take so much before—"

"I love you!" Sarah found some energy from somewhere, because in a moment she was straddled over his body, feathering kisses all over his face. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"Whoa, slow down Fangio."

House put his hands to Sarah's face, pushing back her hair. Her eyes were more golden than green right now, glowing with happiness. The sight was both rewarding and terrifying. His stomach twisted.

"What?" Sarah asked.

"I'm going to make you unhappy," he said. "I won't mean to, but there will be times when I will."

Sarah gave him that patient, serene look he'd seen before. "I know. I love you. I'm okay with it." She grinned. "And besides, if it really does get too much, I can always ask my sister to come visit with us for a while."

House groaned. "Yeah that will be punishment for sure."

"Actually," Sarah said, reconsidering, "I think that might backfire. You two love arguing with each other so much, the person who'll really suffer is me."

"As long as she doesn't kiss me again." House didn't have to try too hard to fake the shudder that wracked him.

Sarah frowned. "Seriously?"

"Are you kidding?"

"But . . ."

He saw the genuine puzzlement on her face, confusion that someone would really, _truly_ not want to get up close and personal with the glamazon that was Charlotte Hardiman. The butterflies in his stomach settled as another realization flooded through him. He wasn't just bringing Sarah into the ups and downs, the highs and lows of his life. She was bringing him into _hers_, too.

"You know what?" he said. "I don't think I'm the only one with issues."

Sarah's frown slowly became a smile. "No, I don't think you are."

"Should make life interesting."

She cocked her head to one side. "Would you want it any other way?"

"Nope. I wouldn't. C'mere woman." House flipped over, pushing Sarah onto her back. He snuggled into her side, swiped the hair back from her face and resettled the quilt over them.

"Now go to sleep," he ordered.

"Go to sleep?"

"I could spank you," he warned

Her eyes lit up and she gave him a shy smile. "Raincheck?"

"Definitely." He leaned over and kissed both her eyelids closed. "Now sleep."

* * *

.

**Epilogue**

The gardens around Mayfield were stunning, almost overwhelming in their lush greens and florals. The beautiful spring weather New Jersey had been enjoying the past few weeks had certainly helped – everything that could flower was in bloom, scenting the air with fresh, rich perfume. Even the trees seemed to have polished their leaves in order to soak up the sun after a long, cold winter.

Sarah strolled over the grass, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her shoulders and the quiet peacefulness of the grounds around her. She tried her best to let it distract her from the heavy, gloomy building behind her. And what might be happening inside. She didn't want to think about that.

And yet she was here.

A pair of dragonflies spun in the air above her, making her smile.

She swallowed hard. Tears were close to the surface. _If this didn't work, if they couldn't help . . . _

She wasn't sure what made her turn, but something tugged in her chest and she spun around. The sun blinded her for a moment, and she raised a hand to shield her eyes. The shadows congealed and she made out the shape emerging from the door of the oppressive building, coming down the stairs towards her.

Sucking in a deep breath, she walked purposefully. No sense putting this off. It had to be faced.

They met where the shadow of the institution cut a sharp line into the grass. She stopped before it, wanting to stay in the sunshine, as if that would mitigate the news she was about to hear.

There was silence for a moment. She stared down at the lawn, watching a couple of ants labor their way over a fallen leaf.

"What did he say?" she asked eventually.

A long sigh.

_The news wasn't going to be good. _Sarah braced herself.

"He said it's going to take time."

Sarah nodded. She swallowed noisily around the lump in her throat.

"Sez, you had to expect that."

Of course she expected that. "I just don't know if . . ." She trailed off, not sure if she wanted to say the words aloud.

"If she can do it," he finished for her.

Sarah finally raised her eyes and met his blue ones. Concerned. Frustrated. Slightly haunted. It has cost a lot for him to come back here with her. But he'd done it. For her.

"Is she going to stay?"

"Nolan says he can keep her for two more days, but after that if she wants to leave, she can."

"Did she listen to you?" Sarah asked.

Greg sighed. He walked across the dark line and into the sun, joining her on her side of light. A sparkle came from the gold ring on his left hand, and a corresponding leap of joy lit Sarah's heart, despite the heaviness that weighed on it right now.

They walked side-by-side across the grass in silence for a moment.

"I talked to her. She didn't want to see me, at first." He glanced across to Sarah. "She blames me for her being here. Says I put ideas in your head."

Sarah shrugged. "I did my research. We both know this is one of the best places. It might not be filled with celebrities like the other places she's tried, but it might actually work."

His mouth compressed in a thin line, but he didn't argue like he had before when she'd said such things. She knew he was being deliberately careful. He understood how much Sarah wanted her sister to get well – to beat her addictions – but he also knew the reality of her chances of success. He'd been trying to walk the line between hopeful and realistic all week – ever since Miles had turned up on their doorstep with a wild-eyed, frantic and paranoid Charlie in one hand and his resignation in the other.

"She did listen, eventually," he said. "Well, that is, I talked and she stayed silent. I'm not sure if that counts as listening. But I think she understands the gravity of the situation. Bringing her here, instead of sending her to one of those Californian spas, has at least got her attention. I doubt Charlie has had to share a bathroom for a very long time," he added with a chuckle.

The thought made Sarah smile sadly. She hated to think of her sister suffering. But if they didn't take drastic action, who knew what the future held?

"Did she . . . Did she tell you she was going to stay?"

He paused and Sarah knew he was framing his reply. She'd noticed he was doing that more often these days – pausing to think before he spoke. Maybe the great Doctor House was capable of change, after all.

"No Sarah, she didn't say she was going to stay," he said softly. He took her hand and gave it a squeeze, interlacing her fingers with his. "But then when I was where she is now, I wasn't going to stay, either."

"But you did."

"Yes, I did. And Nolan is a wily old bastard. If anyone can find a way to work the system, or to work Sarah's ego to her own benefit, he can."

Sarah looked up with a smile. "Is that what he did to you?"

"What, use my own ego against me?" He put a hand to his chest, as if shocked by the question. "An ego? Moi?"

Sarah laughed.

He tugged on her hand and began leading them back across the grass towards the parking lot where their car waited.

"Miles won't resign if we can get Charlie straight," Sarah said confidently.

"And even if he does, there's a hundred agents in line waiting to take her on. A public breakdown like that guarantees she's tabloid fodder for at least the next year."

Sarah shuddered at the thought.

They reached the car park and Greg leaned against the side of their shiny new Audi. A purchase he'd made just before he'd asked her to marry him. He turned to face her, arms open. "Come here."

Sarah gratefully stepped into his embrace, leaning her head against his shoulder as his arms went around her. The comfort of his body pressed against her front, the warmth of the sun beat down on her back. Charlie was safe – for a couple of days, at least. Sarah let the tension flow from her body and let out a long breath.

"Thank you for coming back here with me, for helping me with this," she said softly. She honestly didn't know how she would have managed without him.

"Welcome," he said simply.

She knew expressions of thanks and professions of love just embarrassed him, but she was doing her best to change that.

"I love you," she said. She nuzzled his chest, breathing in his warm smell of spice and strength.

His arms tightened around her. "I love you too."

Sarah wanted to stay right where she was until the sun sank below the horizon and darkness and chill forced them to move. And even then she wasn't sure she'd be ready. But she forced herself to push away, smiling up at him, sending a prayer of thanks to whatever force it had been that had compelled her to investigate the open door in her apartment building that day, to walk inside, to find a stricken man and help him to his feet.

She smiled at this man, a man who had made her his number one and worked every day to prove it to her. He didn't always succeed, but his intentions were honest and they had found their own balance, their own kind of centre, that had seen them through the inevitable ups and downs. "I guess we should head home."

"Guess we should." He pushed himself off the car and headed around to the driver's door.

"I can come back tomorrow by myself," Sarah offered, although she didn't want to. She climbed into the car and buckled her seatbelt.

He shook his head. "No visitors, Sarah. Charlie needs to learn to do this by herself. She can't do that with you there."

"Oh." Sarah froze. She hadn't thought about that. She felt guilty about the relief that went through her body.

The car started with a low purr, and Greg concentrated on reversing out before speaking again. "I have no doubt that if Charlie _does_ stay, at some point Nolan will want you to start coming to therapy sessions," he said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. "It's probably not a bad idea for you to talk about the past anyway."

There was a casual tone to his voice that made Sarah suspicious. She wondered just what the conversation between Greg and Doctor Nolan had covered. She figured she could make a pretty good guess that her own issues had come up more than once.

It was something to think about another time.

"So what are we going to do this weekend?" Sarah said, changing the subject. The car pulled out of Mayfield's long drive and turned on to the highway back towards Princeton. Sarah felt the burden on her shoulders shifting with every mile. "I'd figured we'd be driving back and forward from here, so didn't make any plans."

A wicked grin curved across his features. "Remember when we went to see Jane Austen in space?"

"Huh?"

"You know, Charlie's Razzie-winning role. The premiere in New York."

"Oh, yeah. I'd almost forgotten about that." It was a movie best left forgotten.

"Remember what we did afterwards?"

Sarah certainly did. Unlike the movie, that little adventure was still sharp in her memory. "You want to go to a sex shop?" she asked.

"No. Well . . ." He frowned. "Not unless you've cleaned out the middle closet?"

"Huh?" Since she'd moved in, Sarah had been progressively cleaning out the apartment. Greg House wasn't quite a hoarder, but he certainly did form emotional attachments to all sort of flotsam and jetsam. It had got to the point of "clean up or move". Unsurprisingly, Greg had not wanted to move. "No, I haven't got that far yet. I'm still working on the kitchen."

"Good."

"Why?"

"I bought some stuff that night. It got shoved in the closet."

"Oh." Sarah dug up the memory. Greg handing a credit card to the clerk, receiving a bulging black plastic bag in return. "I thought you bought that stupid penis desk toy for Wilson."

She'd met the oncologist now. He was nice. She didn't entirely trust him, and wasn't sure why, but he was fun company.

"No, I didn't buy that piece of crap."

"So what did you buy?"

He glanced away from the road to waggle his eyebrows at her. "You'll just have to wait and see!" he crowed gleefully.

Sarah laughed as the heat rushed to her cheeks. She loved the fact that her husband made her blush. That the idea of making love to him – and of the kinky games that they played every now and then – made her body rush with heat and moisture.

"I can hardly wait," she said truthfully.

He took her hand in his and raised it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her palm without taking his eyes of the road. "Me either."

.

.

The End.


End file.
